In the Shadow of Dol Guldur
by Darkgirl5
Summary: In the year 1000 of the third age, King Thranduil of Greenwood led his people north from their home around Emyn Duir. What was supposed to be a simple migration grows complicated as the Southern shadow attacks from without and within. Complete
1. Wine To Vinegar

Disclaimer: This story is purely for entertainment purposes. I own nothing. I bow in deference to Master Tolkien who created the world in which this story is set.  
  
Long before the War of the Alliance, Oropher, King of the Silvan  
Elves east of the Anduin, being disturbed by rumors of the  
rising power of Sauron, had left their ancient dwellings about  
Amon Lanc, across the river from their kin in L(rien. Three  
times he had moved northwards, and at the end of the Second Age  
he dwelt in the western glens of the Emyn Duir, and his numerous  
people lived and roamed in the woods and vales westward as far  
as Anduin, north of the ancient Dwarf-Road. (p. 293)  
-J.R.R. Tolkien, Unfinished Tales: The Lost Lore of Middle-  
Earth  
  
.when a thousand years of the Third Age had passed and the  
Shadow fell upon Greenwood the Great, the Silven Elves ruled by  
Thranduil  
retreated before it as it spread ever northward, until at last  
Thranduil established his realm in the north-east of the forest  
and delved there a fortress and great halls underground. (p. 271-  
2)  
-J.R.R. Tolkien, Unfinished Tales: The Lost Lore of Middle  
Earth  
  
-1-  
Wine to Vinegar  
  
"The darkness presses close, my lord." The voice was a murmur in the vast stone chamber echoing as a shout through the room. The speaker looked toward the ceiling, as if watching his words rebound throughout the intricately decorated chamber, and one lip curled upward in disdain. Glancing around for any stray listeners, the speaker moved closer to his lord, silver hair whispering over the green velvet of his tunic. He leaned to speak into an elegant pointed ear. "Everywhere do we see the signs of its rank influence. The water of our fair river is black and poisoned. All who touch it fall under a mighty spell."  
  
"I know all of these things, Thalgaladh," blue eyes flashed with irritation, cutting off the elf's diatribe. Long fingers kneaded a furrowed brow. "Yet I have many questions that remain unanswered." The commanding tone hinted at impatience born of deep concern.  
  
"My lord, we have been unable to ascertain either the identity or intentions of the occupant of Dol Guldur." Thalgaladh reported, his voice reflecting the disappointment he saw in his King's eyes.  
  
The golden haired king heaved a mighty sigh. He'd known this day would come, and he'd anticipated it with equal parts dread and relief. "I suppose that it no longer matters. Everywhere are the harbingers of his ill-intent. The forest around us falls ever deeper into shadow," the king paused to meet his General's eyes "the trees grow restless and ill, the animals flee for safer ground. The shadow breathes discontent through every corner of our home and realm." The King paused for a moment, drawing himself up to his full height before declaring, "It is time."  
  
Thalgaladh met the King's gaze squarely, seeking confirmation in the bloodshot blue eyes. Finding what he sought, Thalgaladh nodded once and questioned, "Are you certain, my lord?"  
  
King Thranduil paused for a long moment, eyes sweeping the room surrounding him. For long years had his people dwelled in and around Emyn Duir. The glens to the west had been their homes, the mountains their fortress, and there had they had found a measure of contentment. The trees here were tall and accommodating, the valleys shallow and warm, the river fair and swift. The elves of Greenwood had dwelled here more than twelve centuries, since his father led them north from Amon Lanc. Indeed, the room in which he now stood with his most trusted General had been his father Oropher's war room. Abandoning their mountain stronghold and the surrounding glens and asking his people to once again follow his family north seemed to the Elvenking an unfair burden. His warrior heart demanded he stay and fight, to take the battle to the doors of Dol Guldur and drive this new evil from the ancient stronghold. Yet such a battle demanded sacrifices that the Elvenking refused to make.  
  
As if sensing his King's thoughts, Thalgaladh stated, "Our people will fight, my King, if you but asked them."  
  
The smile that split Thranduil's face contained no hint of humor. "Ah, but to fight is something I cannot ask. Too many lives were lost in the last battle and I will not willfully lead our decimated people into unnecessary conflict. Too long has it taken for us to recover, and some scars I fear, shall never fade." The mighty voice dwindled into the faintest of whispers as the Lord of Greenwood's thoughts turned towards his own fallen father. The General opened his mouth to refute, but Thranduil silenced him with a raised hand. "Nay, Thalgaladh, we must move." Thranduil spoke the words aloud as much to convince himself as to convince his General. One glance into Thalgaladh's gray eyes revealed his failure on both counts. Both elves were warriors to their bones and to abandon their long time home rather than fight for it chafed. But to allow pride to dictate policy at the cost of his people's lives was a folly that Thranduil would not commit. 'It is a fool that builds his house upon the sand'[i] his father had told him, and for the first time the Elvenking felt the wisdom of those words. The forest around them decayed more each day. The once fecund wood dwindled, its deep roots and mighty trunks eroding under the dark weight that had settled upon them as surely as the river eats its own bed. He'd be twice a fool to stay and fight for what was already lost. "Tell Belegalad to gather the people so that I may inform them of my intentions to move northwards."  
  
Thalgaladh shifted beneath his King's gaze, swallowing around his discomfort. He inwardly cursed the prince, bringing the total to twelve times since the dawn. Oh but he did not want to be the bearer of ill news! Iluvatar alone knew how the Elvenking would react. That's not so. You know exactly how he'll react, his conscience scolded, and he knew the voice spoke true. Steeling himself for a tirade, he forced out the dreaded words: "The prince is not here, my lord."  
  
Thranduil's liquid blue eyes froze into a hard piercing glare. Calm resolution mutated into eerie stillness. The calm before the storm. Rage radiated from the stony king, hot enough to incinerate. The silver haired elf fought the urge to inch backwards. "What do you mean he is not here?" Voice steady, reined. When no reply was forthcoming, stillness evaporated, leaving only a quivering, muted wrath. "Where is my son?"  
  
Thalgaladh resisted the urge to squirm beneath the king's glare, forcing himself to remain steady and unmoving. How the king could still manage to evoke such feelings after thousands of years of friendship and service remained a mystery to the General. Thranduil had long been his friend, but the persona before him, the Elvenking of Greenwood, had ever been intimidating. Thalgaladh could no more stifle the resentment for the being before him than the awe he inspired. "Prince Belegalad rode south at sunrise with a small contingent. His purposes were his own, and did not reveal them to me."  
  
"But you have a theory," Thranduil retorted, finding his tenuous hold on his temper slipping. That his son should have done so foolhardy a thing and placed himself at such risk aggravated the Elvenking no end. Not to mention that he'd done so without so much as a word or goodbye to his family. Thranduil expected such childish mischief from his youngest son, Legolas, who had little concept of the evils that the world contained. He will learn soon enough, he thought, burdened by the shame of not being able to protect his innocent child from encroaching evil. Shaking off the dark thoughts, Thranduil hiked a fine, fair eyebrow at his General, awaiting an answer.  
  
"Aye, my lord." Thalgaladh muttered, unnerved under the other's intense scrutiny. "I fear the prince has gone to Dol Guldur seeking the information that you requested."  
  
Thranduil swore, loud and colorful, running long fingered hands through thick golden hair. Bony fingers snagged in his braids, and the king fisted at his tresses to prevent himself from hurling the nearest object across the room. The thought of his son riding out into such darkness without concept or care of what might lurk within sent an icy shiver up Thranduil's spine. "Foolish child," he mumbled.  
  
"My lord, I can send my best trackers to find the prince and bring him home," Thalgaladh offered, and watched as his friend mulled over the idea. In truth, Thranduil found great merit in the suggestion. Half of him wanted to go after his son personally and drag him back by his pointed ears. Logic dictated that he could do no such thing. Abandoning his people to resolve personal matters when he should be preparing them for the upcoming migration was not a viable option. Of course logic seldom played a role in the dictates of the heart.  
  
Thranduil debated the suggestion for a long moment. Sending trackers out to hunt down his son and drag him home like an errant knave would more than likely be viewed as an unforgivable slight, a belittlement of his abilities. Such an insult might serve to humble a son who would embark on a dangerous quest without his father's leave, not to mention a prince who did so without the approval of his king. As tempting as the offer was, in the end, Thranduil had to discard the idea. Belegalad was a fierce warrior and more than capable of taking care of himself.  
  
"Nay," Thranduil grumbled, unable to eradicate all traces of petulance from his voice. He shook his head once to clear it before conceding, "Nay, for when my son does not wish to be found, none shall find him." Thalgaladh nodded in acknowledgement of the truth behind Thranduil's statement, a near imperceptible smile tugging at the General's mouth.  
  
Thranduil chose to ignore his General's smirk in spite of his ever growing ire. He knew that his friend was merely basking in his pride for it had been under Thalgaladh's tutelage that the Prince had learned all the arts of war. Pushing through his annoyance at what he perceived as a plot between his General and his son, the king said, "Very well, we must proceed without him. We cannot afford delay. Gather the people together so that I may inform them of my intent to migrate north."  
  
-----------------------  
  
The golden arrow whispered through the air like a ray of sunlight, its path perfect and graceful, barely stirring the leaves and branches as it traveled past them before it thudded into the heart of the target. Musical giggles rose like a tide, breaking over the Elvenking as he stood just out of sight of the three young elves in the glen.  
  
"Look at what you've done to my arrow," one platinum haired elf complained, raising the splintered wood for all to behold. The white feathers clung defiantly to the two halves of the arrow as if in denial of their uselessness.  
  
Merry chuckles issued from the other two elves. "Ai, Verenaur, you asked for it, boasting as you were."  
  
"Silence, Luinaur," Verenaur spat. Chuckles turned to breathless laughter, and Thranduil noticed the scowl on Verenaur's face twitch at the corners.  
  
"I am sorry, Verenaur," the golden haired elf stepped forward, fighting a losing battle with his triumphant smirk. "It was not my intention to split your arrow in twain." Verenaur's blue green eyes rose from his ruined arrow to meet azure eyes dancing with mirth.  
  
"Yes it was," Verenaur snapped eliciting peals of laughter from his two companions.  
  
"Yes it was," the golden haired elf conceded, wiping tears from his eyes.  
  
Luinaur strolled over to the other two elves, his gate broadcasting his satisfaction. "Well done, Legolas," Luinaur clapped the prince on the back in a show of approval. "Did I not tell you Verenaur? Our Prince is the finest archer in all of Greenwood." Verenaur rolled his eyes, his mouth curling into a secret smile.  
  
"I would hardly go that far, Luinaur," Legolas shook his head in denial. "I still have much to learn."  
  
Verenaur nodded in agreement before saying, "Aye, that may be true Legolas. But there is also truth in what my so oft errant brother says. That was an excellent shot."  
  
"Indeed it was," Thranduil's voice thundered from behind them, startling the three companions. The three joking elves froze in some odd attempt at blending in with their surroundings. While their rigid stillness did bear a great similarity to the gentle immobility of the trees around them, their only real accomplishment in the act was hilarity. Thranduil smirked at the tableau as he ambled over to the three round eyed youngsters.  
  
In the span of one heartbeat Verenaur and Luinaur dropped to one knee, mumbling a greeting to their king, while Legolas bowed his head in respect. "Ada?" Legolas questioned, tone loaded with apprehension.  
  
Their discomfort was a palpable thing. Each one was drawn so tight that a summer breeze might knock them down. Thranduil greeted the three in hopes to put them at ease. A throbbing vein in Luinaur's forehead and a slight twitch of Verenaur's eye demonstrated his utter failure. With an accepting sigh, the king gestured for the two prostrate elves to rise before saying, "I would speak with you Legolas." Verenaur and Luinaur rose quickly, casting lingering glances at Legolas before quitting the glen.  
  
The king watched the two retreating elves with a small smile before turning his attention on his youngest. A jumping muscle in the strong jaw caught his eye and the king wondered at its cause. The normally excellent posture that marked Legolas as both royalty and an archer remained tense and rigid, and the prince shifted under the silent gaze of his father. The slight, stiff movement was a revelation for Thranduil. His son was nervous in his presence. The thought was more than a little unsettling.  
  
"That was an excellent shot, my son." And it was. The prince had split his friend's arrow at more than two hundred yards, through foliage and against the wind.  
  
Pink lips hitched upward a bit revealing the barest hint of dimple. "Thank you, Ada," Legolas said, a charming blush dusting the tips of his pointed ears.  
  
Thranduil sighed. This was not why he'd sought his son, to compliment his archery. Yet as Legolas squirmed and blushed at the simple compliment, the King found that he solemnly wished that it had been. Thranduil's chest tightened as he considered how much he had missed. In his mind, Legolas remained a child. Of course logically speaking, he knew that Legolas was a child no longer. But the knowing of a thing and its acceptance are two entirely different animals. The child in his mind had matured into a man, a warrior of exceptional skill. Years of growth and training occurred beneath his roof and notice, and now his child was a man. How many of his son's accomplishments had gone unmarked? How many more might he miss? Rubbing at his tired eyes, the king pushed past the depressing thoughts. "My son, there is something I must discuss with you."  
  
Legolas met his father's eyes with swirling curiosity and more than a little trepidation. He could not imagine what his father could have to discuss with him. He could tell by the king's demeanor that it was a topic of great seriousness, and the prince began shuffling through his memory to think if he'd done something wrong recently. It had been many seasons since he'd played any pranks on the nobles of the court. Hadn't it? "What is it?"  
  
Unable to bear the look in his son's azure eyes, the king turned away and began to walk, waiting for Legolas to fall into step beside him. Everything had always been easier for Thranduil while moving among the trees. Throughout his long life they'd lent him their strength and comfort, and he felt the knife of regret cut even deeper as he realized that he did not know if the same proved true of his son. With a deep breath, Thranduil exhaled his worries and regrets and waited for the tension to dissipate between himself and his son before saying, "I have decided to lead our people north."  
  
Legolas's foot froze mid step in an almost comical gesture of shock. Had he not been born an elf, he might have keeled over sideways. A thousand questions swirled through the prince's mind, firing by so quickly he only caught snippets of each. His mouth moved without sound, his brain unable to formulate words as it was still attempting to wrap around the enormity of his father's revelation.  
  
Noting his son's confusion, the king continued talking in hopes of alleviating the shock. "Long have I thought on this, Legolas. The shadow grows and its influences are everywhere." The king paused as if pondering some detail before inquiring, "Have you felt it?" Legolas bristled at his father's clinical question, taking it as a slight to both himself and his abilities. He'd always known that his father thought him inadequate. That he should doubt the prince's awareness of the creeping shadows just proved Legolas's theory. Biting down on his rising irritation and his tongue, Legolas nodded.  
  
Thranduil noted the sharply squared shoulders and the clenched jaw. He recognized the defiant stance by its remarkable similarity to his own. He tapped a tense shoulder to redirect the offended prince's attention. Frosty blue eyes turned on him, revealing nothing and everything of the prince's heart. The king sighed in his exhaustion. He'd offended his son. Five minutes spent in Legolas's presence and somehow he'd managed to offend him.  
  
The king's great sigh drew more attention than all the tapping in the world. Legolas let go of his injured pride long enough to really look at his father. Crimson threads twisted through and around the ordinarily sapphire eyes, and the usually smooth ivory features of his fair face were shadowed by deep lines around his eyes and mouth. Though uncommon, exhaustion was not completely alien among elves. Certainly the prince could recognize it when it trounced across another's features, stealing the glow from skin and the sparkle from eyes. Fair eyebrows hitched at the discovery. He meant to apologize for his childishness, but the king spoke first. "We have never spoken of this before, though I have spent long hours discussing this issue with your mother and brother. I would hear what you have to say."  
  
Legolas swallowed, his anger evaporating like dew at dawn. His father wore the burden of his decision as surely as he wore his leafy crown, and Legolas felt the tips of his ears burn at his own petulance. "I have heard the trees complain and seen the poison that has taken our fair river. At times I think the air foul, but more of taste than scent. Like it soured on my tongue."  
  
Thranduil nodded in approval of his son's observations. "Indeed, the air is foul as are the woods around us. The trees struggle and I can hear them gasping at times beneath the suffocating influences of this darkness. The animals flee northwards as this evil rots the very heart from the wood around us. As sweet wine turns to vinegar, so too does our fair wood turn foul. Our people seem to have remained untainted, but I fear that time runs short for them. For these reasons I feel we must go north"  
  
Legolas's brow furrowed. Again his mind shuffled questions that he felt hesitant to express, though his father's gaze remained open and accepting, inviting comment. He did not fear orcs or wargs. It was the thought of his father's disapproval that sent icy waves up his spine. Bracing against them, Legolas said, "It does not seem right to abandon our home. Where will we go?"  
  
"I understand your reluctance to leave here." The king met his son's eyes squarely, twin blues met and held, and Thranduil continued, "Thrice did I follow my father northwards and each time 'twas a blight on my heart and a bitterness in my soul. Retreat always feels like loss or concession. Yet to abandon a weak position in favor of a strong one is sometimes a necessity."  
  
"Our people will fight!" Legolas declared with all the passion that youth afforded. It was not the first time that particular declaration fell on his ears, nor, he was certain, would it be the last.  
  
"Aye, they would. Yet I would not willingly sacrifice them on the altar of this evil for something as inconsequential as halls of stone." The prince poised to argue the point but fell silent when his father continued. "Once I felt as you did, my son. When first we moved from our dwellings in the south, I wished only to stand and fight what would attack us. My father taught me not to regard war so blithely for its costs are often far greater than its benefits. Oropher told me that a good king always stood ready for battle while seeking an alternative. A path of retreat, for example. He reasoned that while we cannot predict when or if adversity may strike, we should always prepare for it ." He had not planned to lecture at his son. Indeed, he had not known what to expect from this conversation at all. But Thranduil did not do things by halves, and if they were to discuss battle strategies, then he would be sure to do so completely. "To be caught unawares and unprepared is to meet your end. 'tis one thing to fight when there is no alternative. To shed blood and life for stone is little more than vanity. Sometimes the hardest decision we make in this life is not to fight."  
  
He waited for the words to sink in before continuing. "My father taught me that there is no shame in retreat, nor weakness in regrouping if each were used to preserve life. He taught me to use our strengths to our advantage. As an elf, the trees will always aid you, my son." Thranduil paused for a moment, remembering when his father had given him this speech. A vivid picture of his father filled his head, golden and great, battle cry whooping, fierce eyes flashing as he made his final charge. He wished that the last memory of his father, always told his children that it was. The true final picture of Oropher, mangled and blood soaked, ruined almost beyond recognition haunted him still. His heart clenched as the memory of his ruined father flittered through his consciousness. A thousand years and the grief could still wring the breath from his body! Taking a steadying breath, the king spoke again, "It is the trees that have been whispering to me that something ill approaches. I have trusted in my father's teachings. This position is difficult to defend at best and vulnerable at worst. I have been anticipating this move for many winters, and have prepared a new home for us in the mountains at the northeast corner of our fair wood."  
  
Years! How could he not have known? Legolas wanted to be bitter that he'd been excluded from such a large decision for so long but knew he had no right. The young prince had never been interested in the affairs of government or leadership, and his father had always indulged him, allowing him to slip away to sing and frolic with his friends amongst the trees when such topics were discussed, a fact for which he'd ever been grateful. What right now did he have to resent that indulgence? Certainly he'd been excluded from this decision, as he had a thousand others.  
  
You are included now! His mind reasoned, and Legolas released his annoyance. To cling to it would serve no purpose. Reflecting on the matter, the prince conceded that his father's logic was sound. To leave a position of weakness in favor of a stronger one, even if it was abandoning their home, was a wise move. "When will we leave?"  
  
"As soon as the people are able. Within the month, I should hope."  
  
So soon! Feelings and thoughts burned bright, warred with each other for dominance. His father stood placid, prepared for whatever his son might hurl at him. Again the bitterness rose within him so sharp it left a foul taste on his tongue. With a swallow and scrape of tongue on tooth, the blossoming ire faded to aching acceptance. "What can I do?"  
  
A small smile pulled one corner of the king's lips. He had expected a tantrum, or at the very least, opposition. He had, in fact, seen the warnings of it play through the flashing blue eyes. The prince had dealt him a pleasant surprise, for he'd anticipated the encounter to run along the same vein as those he'd had with his eldest. He'd underestimated his youngest son's wisdom and even temper. Nay, he corrected. Not underestimated. Misjudged in ignorance. Again Thranduil felt regret rise within him at just how unfamiliar he was with Legolas's heart and attitudes, and made a silent promise to rectify this lapse after the journey north. Now was not the time for indulgences. "After I tell the people we will need to prepare quickly. I would ask that you stay close to me to help with the preparations."  
  
Shocked by the implications of such a request and pleased by the amount of responsibility his father placed on him, Legolas beamed. His smile seemed to light the whole area with its radiance. "Of course, Ada."  
  
Satisfied, Thranduil turned to leave the glen. He took two retreating steps before he paused and faced his son again. Legolas stood tall and golden, the waning light lending aura to the ethereal beauty. The Elvenking felt full to bursting, nearly choking on an unnamed emotion. He wanted to say so many things! To express the haunting regret or the seldom mentioned love. He dug down within himself for some word that might undo the negligence of the past few centuries. Of course, such words only existed in children's stories where the wicked are always punished, the righteous triumph and all 'live happily ever after.' His father had told him that to fill the heads of our youths with such tales did more harm than good, for then are they left to discover the ugly of truth that there is no 'happily ever after.' Needless to say, Thranduil grew up with a sword in his hand and the ubiquitous shadow in his mind, not having heard a tale of 'happily ever after' until he met his wife. And while his father and then King had scorned the relaying of such fluff to his grandsons, (Foolish nonsense, all!) Thranduil could not deny his sons the joys that such innocent stories would provide. He'd indulged his wife and sons both, but never partook of the tales themselves, and some deep part of him wondered if that might not be why he now stood dumb before his beloved son. A shame, really that the father and man had never quite adopted the king's eloquence, and when he longed most for the perfect words, all that poured from him was a trite, "That truly was an excellent shot, Legolas. You're friend Luinaur did not exaggerate overmuch." Despite their pallor, the words created the most magnificent smile with which the Elvenking had ever been blessed, and thought perhaps there might still be something of the old elven magic left in their fading days. With thoughts of magic and wonder at the forefront of his mind, the Elvenking strolled from the glen, leaving a beatific, beaming prince in his wake.  
  
--------------------------  
  
The underbrush he sprinted across remained unmarred, lending no clue toward of his homeward path, yet his pursuers relentlessly tracked him. They were so close! So close he could almost feel their moist breath across his flesh. Hot blood trailed into his eye mixing with the steady flow of tears. Rapid blinking failed to clear the ever blurring vision and he wiped a shaking hand across them to aid. A tiny stone beneath the grass very nearly undid him as his foot caught its edge. He teetered blindly for a moment before reasserting his footing. That little misstep had cost him precious seconds of lead. Deciding on a different path, he leapt up and caught a hold on a low hanging tree branch, swinging himself up into the trees. The new vantage offered a bleary glimpse of his pursuers. His lead diminished more by the heartbeat. For each step he took his hunters seemed to take three, and they had closed the gap on their quarry so much and so astutely that all hope of outrunning them faded into uncertainty. His thigh burned and throbbed where he'd torn the arrow out, the blood pouring freely down his leg. The injury needed binding, for a certainty, though logic told him that to slow at all meant certain death for him.  
  
The elf pressed himself beyond his endurance, hoping that his new path through the trees might slow his attackers' pursuit. With each step his head grew lighter, his eyes blurrier. Insistent darkness gnawed at his peripheral vision and unconsciousness stood somewhere to the side patiently salivating. The loss of blood coupled with his labored breathing made the siren song of sleep all the more alluring, and he dragged huge gulps of air through a limply hanging mouth to quiet the rhythmic lullaby. His skin burned with fever and his stomach roiled as he pressed for greater speed. His tongue adhered to his teeth when he tried to swallow, and a bitter taste lingered at the back of his throat. Some tiny unexhausted crevice of his mind grunted 'poison' at him, before the tornado of thought and agony sucked it up and away. Later! All worries had a time and place and the poison, if poison it was, mattered little compared to the hunters at his back and the life that gushed from his multiple wounds.  
  
He leapt again, outdistancing his pursuers in the trees. How he wanted to stop! His body demanded it of him, demanded breath or rest, but he could not afford to concede to either demand. His thigh tensed and burned in alternating fits of hellish pain, punctuated by bouts of complete, tingling numbness. And while the numbness provided reprieve it was also his greatest concern, for a deep wound gone numb means more damage than originally thought. Yet he used those small and alarming mercies to their fullest, pressing his already overwrought body harder, further. Gritting his teeth, he ran on, ignoring the swirling head and rising gorge. If he could only lose them! He was less than three hours walk from home! If he could but..  
  
The thought died as sharp pain blossomed between his shoulder blades. He registered neither his fingers' failing grip nor the abrupt and harsh plummet until he landed with a solid thud on the moist ground. The air erupted from him with no less force than lava from a volcano. The dampness seeped through his tunic and for a flash he thought that not only wind had been forced from him under the impact. He shivered in helpless misery as the blood crusted skin grew dewy from the cool earth. The cursed black had devoured his vision until all that remained was a single, wavering point, and even that was peppered with offensive spots danced as he panted. His body twitched with the effort to stand and run, the thought obliterated as something clamped down on his calf, sharp pain giving way to numbness. The pressure relented, and tore and he heard his scream before he could choke it down.  
  
His head was swimming, nay, drowning under the onslaught of so many sensations. What could be the harm in resting, just for a moment? He pushed his hot forehead into the cool earth, praying for reprieve from the pain. Something massive pounced on his back, shifting the embedded arrow and driving it deeper. His shout of pain disappeared into the ground as his face was pressed deeper into the foliage.  
  
The weight on his back vanished with only a deep scratch as farewell. Growling at his ear trilled his heated flesh, raising goose bumps. The creatures would have his throat in a moment, but he couldn't muster the energy to roll over and fight. His eyelids felt twice the weight of his limbs. The blood poured out of him at an alarming rate, he knew, and if he didn't bind his wounds he would be dead within minutes. A cold like he'd never known devoured him from the inside, and his tense, stone body could do little more than tremble. He willed his arm to raise, his knees to bend, yet remained as immobile as the mountains themselves. His body no longer heeded his mind's call and he knew that his life was nearly spent. The chill that settled upon him had little to do with the temperature as he shivered and shuddered on the blood soaked earth.  
  
Voices came over a distance. Harsh voices in foul tongues and Belegalad knew he was caught, knew he would die as his comrades. Regret filled him that he had not bid his family farewell before he departed, and he whispered an apology and prayer before pain and darkness claimed him.  
  
----------------------- [i] Paraphrased from Matthew 7:26-27. "But anyone who hears these words of mine and does not obey them is like a foolish man who built his house on the sand. The rain poured down, the rivers flooded over, the wind blew hard against the house and it fell. And what a terrible fall that was!" 


	2. Something Wicked This Way Comes

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien. The story is of my own making, though it is based in the mythology of Middle Earth. It is an embellishment, a tale that I believe deserved telling. Those characters that are unfamiliar are indeed of my imagining, though I cannot claim to own them as they are too busy owning me.  
  
Feedback is appreciated, though certainly not mandatory. I write for entertainment and sanity, though not necessarily in that order.  
  
-2-  
Something Wicked this Way Comes  
  
The darkness was weaving its way through the woods, charcoal and pitch threads in a green and brown tapestry. Thranduil felt its icy breath on his neck raising goose bumps on ivory skin. It was close now, all around them. Three weeks had passed since Belegalad slipped away, two since he'd sent out search parties for his wayward son, and so far there was no word.  
  
The Elvenking felt a knot in his throat and swallowed around it, closing his eyes against the threatening sting. In a few days, all the preparations for the march northward would be ready and he would have to make a decision. Would he depart without Belegalad? Or would he place his people in further danger by lingering longer than necessary in the mountains.  
  
"You are greatly troubled, husband." A wistful touch across his forehead drew him from dark thoughts. A fine boned hand cupped his cheek and Thranduil opened his eyes to stare into the vivid emerald eyes of his wife. Such beauty could not be described by mere words, or captured with paints, and the Elvenking found his warrior soul longing for just a touch of the poetic. Even after thousands of years she still took his breath away. Her flowing blonde hair kissed with strawberry, her skin shimmering with the luminescence of the finest pearls. Since he first met her singing among the trees she'd been the most beautiful creature in his world.  
  
Thranduil leaned into the touch upon his cheek, hoping to draw strength from the loving caress. "Ai, Linnaloth, I fear for our son." The king paused, afraid to speak too much to his wife. A beatific smile revealing the barest hint of dimple encouraged him to continue. "The hour of our departure draws ever nearer. I know not what to do."  
  
Linnaloth shifted closer to her husband, her rich green velvet gown whispering over the floor as she moved. "What does your heart tell you, my love? It has never betrayed you before."  
  
Thranduil's nose wrinkled and his brow furrowed. "My heart! My heart rages that I do not search for our son." The king broke away from his tender wife, pacing restlessly about the room. His anger bubbled up without warning, setting his body to burn. How could he remain here, pacing out his uselessness? "My blood boils at the thought that some ill has befallen our child and I did nothing to prevent it." Before his mind had processed the thought, Thranduil grasped a chalice and hurled it across the large room, the green crystal shattering against the stone wall and showering the floor. Slanted sunlight glinted off the wrecked goblet throwing dancing patterns of color on the walls.  
  
Even in chaos is there beauty. The distinctly un-elven thought melted into harsh reality as the unfazed Queen padded to her husband and ran a comforting hand across his back. "Well do I understand your fears, for I share them. My heart grows cold in my chest at the thought of our missing child. But you must believe you have done all you can, Thranduil. Thirty elves hunt for him as we speak."  
  
"But not me." He sneered, feeling like a child in a tantrum but unable to pacify himself. What were thirty elves compared to him? He who'd faced, fought and survived the Dark Lord of Mordor! He who'd seen the truest glory of the elves crumble to dust when Menegroth fell? He who'd dwelled in Lindon before following his father away from the cursed Noldor and coming finally to his home in the Great Wood. The warriors who sought his son were among his best and truest. Yet compared with him, they were mere children. "I'm still here waiting. I hate this waiting," he concluded in a whisper.  
  
Linnaloth nodded knowingly. The Queen saw much and well did she understand her husband's misery. She took her husband's hand in hers lifting cool fingers to her warm lips and placing a lingering kiss upon his knuckles. "Do not listen to your impatience, my love. It is the shadow speaking to you and through you. It whispers to us all. Tries to bend us to its will. It would have you out there seeking for here is where you are needed. Times are too tumultuous for you to leave your people."  
  
Thranduil watched his wife as she kissed his hand, listened rapt to her soft words and heard the truth in them. The shadow was growing, slithering ever closer. He'd sensed it and shivered at its familiarity. He feared he knew this evil though he dared not speak such thoughts aloud. After all, prophesy and sight had never been his gift. Linnaloth had ever been more intuitive than he, and it was on her that he relied to speak the truths he could not bear. "Tell me," was all he said, but it was enough to cause his wife to step back and glide to the table. Delicate hands lifted the lone large green crystal goblet to rose petal lips to sip at the spicy drink.  
  
"I feel it now, stronger than it's ever been. It's like icy fingers trailing my spine grasping at my throat." Pale fingers clutched her swan neck in an unconscious mimicry of her words. Emerald eyes shined brighter than normal as they stared at the visions in her head. She looked so lost and tragic. Somehow alone, though she stood not more than three strides from him. The urge to silence her in a tender embrace nearly overwhelmed him. Thranduil's longing to comfort his wife battled fiercely with his need to hear her out. He twitched once, every muscle clenching with anticipation, and remained in place. "By day it just whispers, dread things that rend my heart. The words are seldom clear, yet I always feel their evil. But by night.by night it is a veritable scream in my mind, filling my head with such images that make me claw my eyes." She turned to face him, the setting sunlight shining red through the window and bathing her in its ruddy glow. Her strawberry hair burned as fire and her skin dusted pink, and Thranduil believed the renowned beauty of Luthien pale beside his flaming goddess.  
  
"I have seen our people fall." She faced him with unfocused eyes, looking beyond him at someplace he could not follow. "Overcome by shadow. Dying at the hands of fell beasts in a wood that is foul and poisoned. Their bloodied faces and dying screams torture me. And that is not the worst." She could not speak of the worse images for fear of collapse. The visions of elves slaughtering elves, thin pale fingers drenched in blood as they pulled flesh from the muscle beneath, plucked eyeballs from fair faces in a frenzied insanity. A tingle spread from her chest, wrapping around her throat and sealing off her voice with a soft sob. Haunted green eyes met his and Thranduil was moving before he could stop himself. "It is too close, my love," she gasped into the pile of his tunic as he drew her into his arms. Slim arms encircled his neck as the king buried his face in the pale throat.  
  
How could he have failed to notice his wife's distress? Linnaloth was no timid damsel and yet she quivered in his arms like a fawn in a snare. He cursed himself a fool for his distraction as he ran soothing hands over Linnaloth's hair and down her spine. "I will not delay the migration north. Once all is prepared, our people will move to our new home." He cooed, long fingers sifting through her silken hair.  
  
"And what of you?" Linnaloth sniffled, afraid to break the peaceful spell that had settled over them. Her husband's presence seldom failed at banishing her horror and she was not yet prepared to relinquish her impromptu peace.  
  
His chest filled, arms tightening ever-so-slightly around her as he considered her question. "I know not. My heart still tells me not to leave. It shouts to find our son." He felt her tense in his arms and decided to kill the conversation. Already had they spoken too many evils while entrenched in shadow. He leaned back to gaze into her eyes, wide and suspiciously shining. "Fear not, my love. I will take care of everything."  
  
"You always do," she murmured against his lips, thumb mapping his cheekbone as fingertips traced his ear. She tasted his shudder, inhaled and answered his moan and drew their bodies flush against one another. For tonight they could find peace with each other, beauty in chaos.  
  
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Thalgaladh scanned the tree line around Emyn Duir with mounting anxiety. The trees that had always been their comforting protectors loomed on the horizon like a poised army of giants. He could not suppress the tingling apprehension. It felt as if the whole world held its breath in anticipation of a heavy blow. Thalgaladh believed that his king had been correct in making and holding to his decision to move, despite the bountiful protests of his subjects. His only concern was that all their hasty preparations would be in vain.  
  
The sun was setting, and the whole of the forest appeared ablaze in the waning light. Crimson light reflected off the waxy canopy and in that brief moment, the woods shone brighter than the fairest gem. Thalgaladh inhaled, seeking the solace that only the sweet forest air bestowed. The breath that should have refreshed him choked him instead. He gasped and sputtered until tears flowed. Rain lingered not far off, the telltale aroma of thunder and lightning spicing the air. But something else wafted on the breeze, something acrid and noxious that left a foul taste clinging to his pallet-a hint of smoke and burnt flesh-which no amount of swallowing could abolish.  
  
Dread filled him as it had not since Oropher had announced his intentions to join the Last Alliance against Sauron a thousand years before. The light was fading, sinking ever lower and stealing the colors of the world as it went. The bright greens and golds morphed into shades of gray, and the elf fought the urge to whisper a small prayer to their passing. His mind told him that the color would return with the dawn while his heart despaired that he would never behold them again. The trees' shadows stretched, trailing along the ground, grasping for his ankles in the waning light. The General couldn't resist the impulse to step out of their reach.  
  
A chill wind blew out of the south, snagging the end of his cloak and tugging on it like a playful puppy before worming its way beneath Thalgaladh's tunic and trailing his spine. The elf shivered like grass in the breeze. His arms tensed against the urge to hug himself for warmth. The sun dipped below the horizon, the bright red finally yielding to the pressing black. He immediately mourned its departure.  
  
Though foresight had never been his gift, Thalgaladh couldn't banish the notion that what he was currently experiencing was some premonition of evil. He tried to dismiss the cold feeling pooling in his stomach as some trick of the shadow pressed too closely on him. Looking down at the ground, he noticed the shadows of the tree branches twisting and coiling around his feet and he literally leapt from their grasp. When the light of the Anar completely dissipated from the sky, the whole of the forest would be cast into absolute darkness. Ithil would not rise this night. Though usually under the new moon the stars shone twice as brightly, tonight he feared they would not shine at all.  
  
Thalgaladh scanned the tree line one final time in the dying light, ten thousand points tingling along the pathways of nerves. Something came for them. Something evil, something wicked beyond recent memory. The knowledge granted him few options and even less comfort. Determined to double the watch that night, the General retreated into the safe confines of the stronghold.  
  
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"I still don't see why we have to pack the food," Luinaur grumbled, loading a crate of dried venison into a cart.  
  
"Be thankful little brother. There are worse jobs to be had." Verenaur tossed a berry into his mouth. Luinaur pinned him with a glare that would kill an orc at fifty paces, and Verenaur couldn't resist the urge to chuckle at his younger brother. "We could have been tasked with folding linens."  
  
"We're warriors! We should be in the armory, or defending the walls! We should not be on kitchen duty!" One side of the crate that Luinaur carried slipped from his grip, and the entire box of meat threatened to crash to the stone floor. Luinaur shifted, catching the box on his knee and in his hand, swearing at his own clumsiness. Verenaur guffawed at his brother, nearly dropping his own crate at the display.  
  
"We serve my father and his people, and if he requires that we pack food or fold linens, then that is precisely what we shall do." Legolas's tone lacked its usual playfulness as he loaded a crate of salt onto the cart. Both brothers had the decency to look sheepish at their prince's reprimand, and they each resumed their duties without complaint.  
  
Several minutes of tense silence passed, each elf piling crate after crate into small carts that, once filled, would be pushed into the corridor to await the time of the elves' departure. Crate after crate, cart after cart till the end of the world! Legolas stopped his tedious work, rubbing his tired eyes with thumb and forefinger.  
  
The waiting was intolerable, and the weeks interminable. Legolas had torn through the list of tasks that his father had given him in an effort to distract himself from the worry that steadily gnawed at his soul. What would they do? The day of departure was at hand and there was still no word of his brother. Fingers unconsciously sought an ancient, faded scar on his shoulder and rubbed in small circles. Would they be forced to leave without him? What if they never saw him again? The thought chilled Legolas, and he quickly squashed it down.  
  
His thoughts dissolved into the morbidly silent present. The familiar chatter that had provided the undercurrent for most of his years was absent, leaving a palpable void in its stead. Confused, he glanced between his stoic friends and ran through the events that had led up to their current situation. With a deep sigh, Legolas said, "forgive me my short temper, my friends. I did not mean."  
  
"There is not the need to apologize, Legolas. We understand the worries that press upon you." Verenaur appeased, placing a comforting hand over idly circling fingers. He remembered well the scar that lingered there, and the events of the day that had caused it; the injury that would have claimed the young prince's life if not for fraternal foresight and intervention. Legolas's fingers clasped his hand, and grateful eyes met Verenaur's.  
  
"It will only be a few more days, and then we will be out amongst the trees again." Luinaur added, stumbling oafishly under the weight of a vat of oil. Verenaur caught his brother and the oil before the two landed on the floor, snorting at his brother's ridiculous antics.  
  
"Yes, and according to our King, our new home shall be far grander." Verenaur asserted. A pale smile graced the Prince's features, before he resumed his work loading carts. The brothers exchanged a worried look. "I can see no harm in taking a short respite. Perhaps we could go outside and greet the evening."  
  
Legolas paid his friend no heed, continuing to work as though the fate of all Middle Earth rested on the proper loading of food into a cart. Verenaur watched Legolas, worrying about the state of the prince's spirit. The passing days since Belegalad had left had dragged like centuries, each one etching new lines around the fair young prince's eyes. Verenaur watched as Legolas threw himself entirely into preparing for the move, attacking each task with his full fervor, from the grand to the menial. The prince had neither eaten nor slept, and hadn't stepped out of the keep once to so much as breathe the fresh air.  
  
Grasping Legolas's arm, Luinaur said, "Legolas, let us take a small break. Surely a few minutes to bathe in the starlight will not delay our journey."  
  
Legolas glanced between his two friends, noting their haggard appearance. How could he be so insensitive as to keep his two friends cooped up for three weeks, without sunlight or starlight to lift their spirits? "You are right, my friends. I have been unfair to you. Please take your ease for the rest of the night." And with that, the prince resumed his work.  
  
This was ridiculous! Legolas was a ghost of himself, and seemed to fade more with each passing moment. The normally jovial elf had disappeared in favor of this melancholy, and at times ornery version of himself. A few more days and he will have become his father. Verenaur stepped forward and took the crate from the prince, setting it back in the pile. "No, Legolas, we must all take a break," he commanded, tugging on the prince's arm. Legolas's brow folded up, eyes narrowing into a sharp glare. He tightened his muscles against the hand that clasped it, holding his ground defiantly. Verenaur gritted his teeth, drawing nearer to the prince. "You need a break from this Legolas. Cease this stubborn foolishness and come outside."  
  
The prince's gaze was as lethal as his aim. His fist clenched till his knuckles turned white, and his arm trembled. Luinaur stepped forward in time to catch the flying fist an inch from his brother's temple. Had the blow remained unchecked it undoubtedly would have rendered the elf unconscious. "Enough of this. Do you not see, Legolas? You would strike your friend who's only crime is concern!" Luinaur glanced at his brother's shocked face before continuing, "and a deficiency of tact." Verenaur turned his glare on his smirking brother but Luinaur ignored him. He loosened his grasp on the prince but did not relinquish it as he leaned in and whispered, "It is the Shadow, my friend. Each day it tightens its grasp upon us. We all feel it, but you are not fighting it because you are too busy fighting us."  
  
Legolas went limp in the brothers' grasp and had Verenaur not had such a firm hold on his arm, the prince would have collapsed to the floor. Luinaur lifted the prince's arm over his neck to support him. "Come my friend. You sorely need the comfort the stars and trees can provide. A half hour will be a balm to your aching heart, I am certain."  
  
"I am sorry." Legolas whispered, breath hitching on a sob. Verenaur shook his head, placing a comforting hand on the prince's shoulder.  
  
"Peace, Legolas. Come, let us go outside. The trees call to us."  
  
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The darkness opened its eyes and blinked, stretching out lazily across the forest. It spread and arched, wrapping around tree-limbs and twining in leaves. A soft sigh drove and herded the clouds for grasping tendrils to catch and hang low over the lush forest. Within this cocoon the dark coalesced and solidified, growing teeth and claws. And eyes--thousands of yellow eyes. Writhing masses of flesh and magic spawning and slithering along the forest floor. Thick veined wings beat the air, bruising and poisoning with each flap.  
  
It pushed forward.  
  
Trees groaned and shriveled at its passing, shedding leaves like a snake's skin, showering them like flower petals on a wedding aisle. Only the marcher was no white bride, nay. This one came draped shrouds of shadow, reaping life wherever it be found and devouring it whole. It grew as it progressed, fattened on the corpses of its victims, sweating venom on ever- larger areas of forest only to exacerbate the infection.  
  
With bony fingers it pointed, and reached, weaving a web around its prey, setting the trap. No heavenly light pierced its mantle. The time was ripe, its power peaked.  
  
It would be done tonight. 


	3. Ruptures

Disclaimer: "No! I am not [J.R.R. Tolkien], nor was meant to be;" (Adapted from T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" Line 117 "No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;".) If you've never read it, I highly recommend it. Anyway, all recognizable characters belong to Mr. Tolkien and his estate. I'm simply borrowing them so that my original characters won't be lonely without their King and Prince. Not to mention how ridiculous a story about wood elves might be if it took place someplace other than the woods. The elves of the desert? It just doesn't work.  
  
Warnings: This chapter has a bit more blood and violence than the others, though not so much as the future.  
  
-3-  
Ruptures  
  
"I have never seen a night this black," Legolas remarked as he stepped into the glen. "There is not a single star visible in the sky." The sight should have been unsettling, but the prince felt oddly detached. He gaped overhead and stared at the infinite ceiling of the sky.  
  
Verenaur looked up and shuddered. The sky hovered just above them, thick and black. The normal vast openness of the night sky had been replaced by a low hanging, ominous ceiling that he could practically touch. Verenaur had to stamp down on an irrational claustrophobia that took hold of his mind. Try as he might, he could not dispel the feeling that the sky was little more than a mighty axe waiting to drop. His feet remained rooted in place as the universe collapsed around him and his mind screamed at him to flee before he was crushed beneath its weight. His stomach fluttered at the thought and he turned to his companions to express the urge when Luinaur asked: "Do you hear that?"  
  
Legolas tilted his head and furrowed his brow in concentration. "Yes, I hear it," the remark more question than statement, and Verenaur felt the dread grasp onto his guts and twist.  
  
Closing his eyes against the darkness, Verenaur devoted the whole of his attention to the sounds that lurked within it. He did hear something, faint and far off-but moving closer. It whirred and buzzed, tapped and crunched. But for all his long years of life, the elf could not place the sound.  
  
The sky tore open above their heads, thousands of branches of lightning veining the low cloud cover and casting the world in a pale blue light. Before the flash dimmed, a bang louder than a hundred trees collapsing shook the world and left the elves' ears ringing. The fading flash left a muscular darkness in its wake, a void pressing and pulling at their flesh.  
  
Verenaur smoothed his hair back, blonde strands wrapping around his fingers and sticking to his palms. That lightning had passed close. Too close. Close enough to taste, he noted as he wet his lips. The whole of his attention focused into a singular point, everything else caught in its gravity until the swirling jumble crystallized into one throbbing word. Danger! They were in terrible danger and they had to flee. Intuition or impulse, it mattered not, for the truth of the thought hummed through every fiber of his being. Snapped from his reverie, he looked at his companions to see if they had experienced their own ill premonitions, shared in his fear. Legolas and Luinaur stood still, heads back, ogling the sky with wonder.  
  
"We must go inside!" He demanded, snapping them from their trance. How they could not feel the horrible intent buzzing through the air he did not know. The air was charged with it, as surely as it was with the static from the too close lightning flash. "Now!" He yelled, when they did not respond to his satisfaction. He grabbed Legolas's wrist intent on dragging him back toward the safety of his father's halls.  
  
Something large and hard struck his shoulder and Verenaur loosed his hold on Legolas. For one lingering heartbeat, he believed that the prince had carried out his earlier threat and struck him in anger. With balled fists he turned, intent on defending himself. Another blow caught him on the top of his head and another on his neck. Thoughts of attack evaporated as new pains blossomed across his body. Verenaur raised both hands above his head only to feel dozens of blows to his knuckles. His mind groped for an explanation, a course of action.anything that would pass for a complete coherent thought. But the sharp blows rained down upon him too quickly for his brain to process anything more intricate than a yelp.  
  
"Ai!" The pained cry came to him through the maelstrom and Verenaur sought the source. The dark was a blanket over the earth, over his eyes, and he squinted into it and through the falling ice until he glimpsed his companions. Legolas was pulling Luinaur to his feet, wrapping one pale arm around his neck while bracing him up about the waist. Luinaur swayed and weaved against Legolas nearly sending both elves to the ground.  
  
"Luinaur!" Verenaur ran to his brother and took his other arm. With one arm firmly around his brother's waist, Verenaur hauled the younger elf off his feet and ran toward cover. The hail coated floor provided little traction, hindering the elves' movements and forcing them to move slowly to avoid toppling. Thus they were forced to endure long seconds of the foul storm as hail the size of fists pounded down upon them, striking hard, deep blows.  
  
Relief came as suddenly as the onslaught as the elves finally gained the mouth of the cavern. Each one felt the bone deep bruises cry out for attention. Concern for their injured companion numbed all their aches, and both the prince and Verenaur worked cautiously to ease Luinaur to the ground. Legolas winced at his friend's pained groan and ran comforting fingers across the wrinkled brow. A sharp hiss and sticky warmth on his fingertips greeted the gesture and the prince rose in search of better light.  
  
"Luinaur?" Verenaur's voice remained steady, despite his panic. "Where are you hurt?"  
  
Legolas returned with a torch and knelt beside his friend again, bringing the light close to his face. The wound was jagged and bleeding heavily, the skin purpling at the edges. Verenaur paled at the sight of so much blood. "Head wounds bleed viciously, my friend." Legolas whispered as he tore a strip from his tunic and wrapped it around the injury, earning a pained groan from the other elf. He wasn't certain if he'd meant the statement as a comfort or a warning. Perhaps a little of both.  
  
"I am fine." Luinaur moaned, sitting forward. His vision swam before him, the light of the torch splintering and fracturing into a dozen lights, all revolving around each other. His stomach wrenched and Luinaur contracted all his muscles in an effort to hold down the rising gorge.  
  
Legolas pressed Luinaur back into the wall, glancing over to catch Verenaur's worried eyes. As promised, the wound bled profusely. Already a bright blossoming bloodstain seeped through the binding. Luinaur's eyes were all pupil, refusing to dilate in the torch light. "You are not fine," the prince declared.  
  
Luinaur twisted his head from side to side in what might have begun its life as a protest. The small movement forced him to reconsider his denial, however. His skull felt split, like an egg that's fallen from its nest. He half expected all the contents to pour forth from some imperceptible crack. Everything felt like it was swelling, pressing against the inside of his skull, pounding with the thrum of his heart. He wanted to rub at the ache, but the slightest touch brought tears to his eyes. He shifted onto one hip, closing his eyes and laying his face against the cool stone.  
  
"What is that pounding?" Luinaur whispered, feeling vibrations against his cheek thrum a counterpoint to the throbbing in his head.  
  
Verenaur's face folded in concern. "It is hail." Pale fingers sought to smooth the pained creases from a torn brow.  
  
Luinaur winced then smiled around the pain. "Oh good. I was worried that my head might be exploding."  
  
Legolas smirked and lifted his friend. "We must go. We need to get you help." Verenaur caught his brother's arm and pulled him to his feet, echoing the other's pained wince. "And I must speak with my father," Legolas murmured, almost an afterthought.  
  
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No sooner had Thalgaladh passed into the main gates that an earthshaking boom thundered through the woods. His skin prickled and tingled. The fine hairs that downed his arms stood at attention. The great noise riled the warrior within, sending one hand unconsciously grasping for the hilt of his sword. It received a violent shock for its trouble. The jolt rippled up his arm, numbing his fingertips and causing the nerves to tingle from his wrist to his shoulder. Thalgaladh was busily rubbing feeling into his fingertips when the hail started to fall.  
  
Like a rockslide it came, threatening to crush and bury all that it landed upon. The General squinted into the darkness, unnerved by his limited vision. The tree line that only moments before had stood proud and clear before him was indecipherable. The only shapes he could make out were the chunks of ice that struck the ground just beyond the palace doors. Murmurs around him drew his attention from the freakish weather and Thalgaladh schooled his features into a passive mask.  
  
"What happens?"  
  
"It comes for us.."  
  
" We are too late.."  
  
"..the king."  
  
"We'll not last the night."  
  
Thalgaladh pushed through the throngs of elves who stood to gape at the churning tempest without. The lightning flashed, tracing intricate pathways through the roiling black clouds, briefly illuminating the distant tree line and glinting off the falling ice. One bolt tore into a mighty oak. The tree dissolved from the strike, its trunk splintering and shattering, its foliage burning and sending great plumes of thick smoke to join the already low cloud cover. The thunder boomed again, fuller and louder than last time and Thalgaladh imagined he felt the ground shift beneath his feet. His ears rang in protest and his head throbbed momentarily. He placed a steadying hand on the wall and felt a vibration like a fluttering heartbeat beneath his palm.  
  
Thalgaladh stared at his splayed fingers, willing the sensation away, willing it to be a trick the shadow played on his mind. He removed his hand, waited, then replaced it. The sensation remained and intensified until he heard it trilling and humming in the stone. Wary gray eyes drifted upwards, seeking the source of the new sound before finally landing on the small square hole above him. A tendril of ozone tainted air gusted into his face and Thalgaladh's eyes widened in comprehension.  
  
"The air shafts!"  
  
And then they were on him. Like ten thousand autumn leaves dropping at once they flew into his eyes, his face, his open mouth. Thalgaladh spat and swatted, snapping his mouth shut only to find it wrapped around something that sputtered and buzzed, leaking foul fluids onto his tongue. Trembling with revulsion he reached into his mouth, withdrawing the still twitching carcass of half a bug. He doubled over, gagging and spitting in an attempt to rid his mouth of any remaining pieces. From between his teeth he withdrew a wing, leaf green and mangled, veins bent from his clenched jaw. The General could not contain the moan of disgust that slipped out any more than he could cease the convulsive slaps at the light wispy touches of wing or leg against his flesh. A lingering touch between his shoulder blades caused a full body twitch. He grasped the thing, yanking it off to bring before his eyes.  
  
The bug was big: the size of his palm and the color of newborn leaves. The wings quivered lazily as it sat in his palm staring at him with an intensity equal to his own. The wings fluttered, spindly legs barely lifting off before he clapped his hands together to smash the foul creature. Had there not been thousands, Thalgaladh might have been fascinated. Never before had he met these creatures in his long wanderings in Middle Earth. To kill something without thought or curiosity was not his way, indeed, not the way of any elf. But the enormous insects were swarming, flying around and diving at the elven warriors in odd, clear attack patterns. Each elf was running, clawing at their eyes, their clothes as the fat insects perched on their bodies. Thalgaladh picked the pieces of smashed bug off his hands, wiping the smears of guts off onto his leggings.  
  
"Come," he shouted to the scrambling warriors. Without watching to see if they followed, Thalgaladh sprinted down the long corridor, unfastening the clasp that gathered his cloak about his throat. The silver clip rasped open, releasing the sturdy material from its grasp to slip from broad shoulders. Slender fingers balled the cloak under one arm as the General leapt for the lip of the stone duct.  
  
Flat palms pressed against unresisting stone and Thalgaladh slipped an interminable inch down the abrasive wall. He thrashed for any leverage, somehow unprepared for strong hands that caught his feet and pressed him upward into the vertical tunnel. He gritted his teeth and clasped the edge of the horizontal shaft, hearing the buzzing that was coming and coming..  
  
He stuffed the balled robe into the horizontal shaft, hoping to bar these fell insects progress beyond their main entrance and walls. There was no telling what kind of damage they would do.  
  
Sliding back down the shaft, Thalgaladh landed soundlessly upon the stone. He was surrounded by wide-eyed elven warriors, agape and awaiting his command. "Seal up all the air ducts into the keep. Stuff the horizontal shafts with whatever you can find. Board up everything. I do not want these creatures breaching our home."  
  
The warriors rushed to comply with the orders, swatting at anything that flew at them, ducking and dodging the dive-bombing insects.  
  
Once the matter of sealing off the air ducts was under way, the General broke out into a full run to seek out his king. The solution he'd offered was only temporary, he knew. A simple manner to buy them some time. Thalgaladh knew the simple irrevocable fact that, through the intricate network of air-shafts tunneled through the mountain, these creatures had access to everything. Something had to be done!  
  
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Luinaur's eyes refused to focus. He blinked, alternately squinting and widening his eyes in an effort to focus on the path before him. His vision remained stubbornly blurred. The sensation reminded him of hot summer days in the Brown Lands, heat waves rising off the scorched earth and casting the illusion of movement over the stagnant, barren ground. His felt nausea rise in him again and knew that his unfocused eyes were the cause. He wanted to rub at them, to coax them to focus but his arms were wrapped around his companions as they dragged him down the passageways. He closed his eyes in resignation, setting his brain into a sickening twirl. Bleary eyes snapped open under the whirling onslaught and he once again battled his injury induced nausea. He shook his head in frustration and groaned as his brain banged against the inside of his skull.  
  
The groan caught the attention of a concerned brother. "Luinaur?"  
  
Instead of answering, Luinaur lolled his head onto his brother's shoulder and closed his eyes. Maybe if he didn't try to hold up his head.. He felt Verenaur's hand tighten its grip on his waist while the other smoothed the hair back from his face. Legolas's voice came to him as if over a great distance. "Perhaps we should rest for a moment." Movement against the top of his head indicated his brother's wordless reply, and then he was shifted and lowered, the stone cool against his back and bottom.  
  
Verenaur studied his brother, his face painted with concern. The bindings on his head were already soaked through with blood. The younger elf's eyes were clenched shut, his whole face fixed in a grimace of pain. Luinaur's natural pallor was tinted an alarming greenish tinge that Verenaur had seen him wear only on mornings after he'd imbibed too much sweet wine. The sickly complexion coupled with the soaking bandages only increased his worry. "We cannot linger long," Verenaur said, hands a flurry of movement hovering about but never touching his injured brother.  
  
Legolas studied his friends for a moment before something caught his attention. He crooked his head listening, then peered down the hall behind them. Nothing stirred before him. Yet he swore that he heard something like tapping, or scratching. He pushed the torch before him, illuminating even more of the cave.  
  
"What is it Legolas?" Verenaur asked, voice steady despite the rising anxiety.  
  
"I know not." The prince said, and stepped in the direction of the sound.  
  
Nothing seemed amiss, yet something of the sight nagged at him. Movement caught his eye and he peered deeper to find its origin. With such low light, Legolas could not pinpoint the source of the disturbance. Until his brain finally processed what his eyes had been seeing. He could not discern the source of the movement because there was no singular source. The entirety of the floor was moving, ebbing and flowing like waves on the stormy sea. It rose up with teeth and claws, threatening to engulf the sedentary elves.  
  
"Rats!" Legolas yelled a heartbeat before they were on him. Writhing, chattering bodies of flesh and fur surrounded his feet. Claws and teeth pierced the flesh and muscle of his calves and ankles and the prince kicked out sending rodents crashing into the cave wall. Squeals of animal pain filled the cave as the prince stepped on and kicked rat after rat. But where one was destroyed, ten rose up in its place, eyes and teeth red and dripping.  
  
A pained cry behind him had Legolas moving. The fell creatures had swarmed past him and were on his friends. Verenaur tore rats off his prone brother, bashing them against the wall. He dragged Luinaur toward him to lift the elf to his feet, ignoring the moan that broke from his brother's lips. Claws ripped at his back and hands as the rats climbed him. Teeth sunk into the flesh of his wrist and forearm, the muscles of his thigh, the nape of his neck. Rivulets of blood welled and flowed from the bites and scratches. Verenaur paid them no heed. He was too busy swatting the foul beasts from his brother, pulling them from Luinaur's arms before they made their way to his face.  
  
Legolas grasped a fat body from his friend's back, wincing as he heard Verenaur's flesh tear around the fangs. Disgusted by the creature in his hand, fat and full with his friend's blood, Legolas dashed it against the wall, its brains a red and gray spatter across the stone. The dripping carcass fell twitching and writhing to the ground before disappearing beneath its comrades. A mad glee filled him at the violent and grotesque image and the elf prince found himself longing to repeat the action.  
  
Kill them!  
  
The words spoke his heart's fondest wish, its deepest desire. To grant each and every creature the violent death it deserved. To squeeze the hairy things until their eyes exploded; to hear the satisfactory snapping of tiny bones; to squish them until all skeletal structure was obliterated and he could wring the blood and juices from them like water from a rag. The feeling of rightness at the thought was so pronounced, so pure that it startled Legolas back to himself. Something was amiss; something grander and darker than the plague of rats and the prince knew with no uncertainty that they needed to flee.  
  
Shaking with adrenaline, Legolas grabbed onto Luinaur and pulled him up. "Come, we must go!" It comes! He howled with mind and soul. The injured elf's head rolled back and he cried out at the unexpected pain. Legolas's clenched jaw was the only outward indication that he'd even heard the sound. He hooked Luinaur's arm over his shoulder and began dragging the limp elf down the corridor.  
  
Rats nipped at his heels, squealing at every kick received. They sunk their claws into leggings and teeth into tendon as they dove for his ankles. Luinaur cried out and kicked, thrashing frantically in his companions' arms. Legolas pushed his friends ahead of him. "Go!" He yelled, kicking out at the sea of attackers, brandishing his torch like a weapon.  
  
Verenaur hesitated a moment, watching the prince stand amidst thousands of salivating rodents. "Legolas?"  
  
"Go!" The prince commanded, his very tone demanding obedience. Verenaur cast one more worried glance at his friend before lifting his brother over his shoulder and pushing through the swarming animals ahead of him, kicking aside those in his path.  
  
The rats were climbing him and Legolas beat at his legs with his free hand. He thrust the torch forward, scorching those foolish enough to snap at his hand. The smell of burned hair and flesh filled the cave accompanied by the screams of the dying. The burning creatures scurried around in an attempt to escape the agony, succeeding only in igniting others. Those that were fortunate enough to escape the flame fell upon their fallen comrades, snapping at each other in an attempt to devour the fresh meat. Legolas snarled in disgust as he watched the rodents cannibalize each other. He retreated a bit as another wave climbed over the dead and feasting rats.  
  
Legolas turned and ran full speed down the tunnel. He heard the creatures scurrying after him, claws tapping, jaws snapping. His mind attempted to keep pace with his feet, to come up with some viable option. Escape, though a pleasant notion, would prove impossible. All his hasty retreat accomplished was to blaze an unhindered trail directly into their home. He needed to stop them, to somehow prevent what he knew to be an unnatural invasion, but his heart was pounding a counterpoint to his footfalls making cognitive thought a chore. His only true hope, pale as it may be, was that he might put enough distance between himself and these dark vermin that he might effectively seal off the tunnel before they gained the entrance. Still images of a hungry horde spilling through a rupture of defenses that he'd created danced through his overwrought senses, and the prince could not repress the shudder that rippled through him.  
  
A change of texture beneath his feet drew the prince from the taunting visions of pestilence. The caked earth and stone gave way beneath his graceful sprint, sending a spray of wet warmth across his cheek. Queasy fingers dashed away the viscous fluid, the coppery scent nearly overwhelming the already nauseated prince. Blood. Curious eyes glanced over sticky fingers before risking a quick peak at the ground.  
  
He cursed his morbid curiosity.  
  
The hallway was strewn with broken, mangled corpses of rats that had somehow managed to get in front of him. They were in tatters, chunks of flesh and unidentifiable bits of innards painted the entirety of the hallway. Many had been decapitated, heads missing, while others were turned inside out. The prince focused once more on his flight, but not before the image of carnage had emblazed itself completely in his memory. His stomach did a half flip, gurgling once with a brief surge of acid before settling back down. Legolas could only conclude that Verenaur had killed these rats in his flight, though he could not account for the violence of their deaths. His distraction cost him as he stepped directly onto the broken corpse of a particularly fat rat and slipped on the gooey entrails. He skidded along the stone, boot finding no traction on the slick, slimy surface. His arms pin-wheeled for balance and for one unending moment, Legolas was certain that he would fall face-first into the gore lining the corridor.  
  
With his free hand he caught the wall and the prince resumed his sprint through the caverns. The loss of balance, however, resulted in a loss of lead and the rats' breath heated his heels once more. One misstep now and they would devour him as surely as they had their fallen comrades.  
  
He had to think of something! He might be able to outrun the creatures, but that would only lead them straight into his home. He was too close to the entrance to ever gain a proper lead and they were too close now for him to ever hope to seal the corridor against their onslaught. Seeing another lit torch ahead of him, Legolas dropped the one he was carrying in hopes of slowing the pursuing vermin. Pained screeches reached his ears as the smell of roasting hair filled the air again, and Legolas double-timed it to the lit sconce on the wall. He tore it off without a backward glance and ran onward.  
  
A vicious tear at the back of his knee buckled his leg beneath him. Legolas crashed onto his bleeding leg, crying out at the sharp pain in his knee. He forced his other leg beneath him and pushed, but a dozen bodies colliding with him at full speed sent him sprawling. He thrashed like an animal in a snare beneath the crushing weight of a hundred attackers, to no avail. Within seconds he lay beneath a blanket of tearing, biting flesh.  
  
------------------------  
  
"My love, do you hear something?" White fingers stroked gold hair.  
  
Thranduil sighed contentedly, head resting upon his wife's chest, a lazy smile on his face. "Aye. I hear your heart beating." He stroked his fingertips over her clavicle, tracing the contour of the bone. Warm lips followed fingers, blazing a moistened trail up to a pale throat. Smiling lips hovered, grazing over the soft pulse before whispering, "'Tis a most lovely sound."  
  
Musical giggles answered his whisper, turning to a pleasured hum beneath his open mouth. She luxuriated in the sensations of her husband's hot tongue tickling at her skin for a moment until the strange sound distracted her. "There it is again," she said, her voice an odd mixture of confusion and irritation.  
  
This time Thranduil heard it too. In half a heartbeat he was standing beside the bed drawing on a robe, eyes sweeping the room for any sign of danger. Nothing stirred or shifted under his persistent gaze, no sound drifted in the stillness. He turned uncertain eyes back to his wife who arched an eyebrow in question. "Perhaps it is best if we get dressed," she sighed, earning a small smirk from her husband.  
  
The quip perished on his tongue, taking the humor from his eyes with it. Something stood beyond his chamber door. He'd heard it rasp, or perhaps murmur. Maybe he just felt it as a full body itch. He couldn't be certain how he knew. He just knew. Linnaloth must have sensed it too, though he had no time or thought to ask her. Two fingers pressed against his lips in an unnecessary gesture for silence as he slowly drew his blade from the scabbard. The faint ting of vibration as the blade cleared the sheath raised the tiny hairs on his neck, sending a chill down his spine. He glanced over to his wife, saw her enrobed and poised at the side of the bed, eyes asking the question her lips could not. A small shake, more of eyes than head, told her to remain where she was as he made his way to the door.  
  
Sure swift feet carried him across the room, and in seconds the Elvenking found himself pressed tight to the heavy wood. This is foolish, his brain taunted. What should he fear lay beyond his chamber doors? The royal chambers lay in the very bosom of their stronghold. What could reach them here?  
  
Though logical, the thoughts rang hollow in his mind and heart. What place did logic hold amidst shadow? The chill in the air and the gooseflesh covering his body told him the truth of his heart's fears: something lay beyond the doors.  
  
Stop behaving as a silly woman and open the door, Thranduil!  
  
The king shook off the eerily familiar voice, clutched the ornate door pull and pulled mightily. The door swung open with a barely audible whish (he'd half expected it to creak obscenely) leaving the Elvenking standing upon the threshold with no more than a robe and sword as defense against whatever ill lay without.  
  
Whatever horror he'd anticipated fell shy of the reality. Thranduil's heart stuttered in its eternal beating, as if it too had to freeze to take in the sight. A momentary cease only before it shuddered to catch up with itself, leaving the king with only the knowledge of its brief pause and his slack jaw. He snapped his mouth shut at the indignity of such open shock before gently chiding himself for worrying about things such as dignity when staring into the gaping, devouring mouth of evil.  
  
The walls and floor were lined with squirming, rippling flesh, and a tongue of thousands of tentacles lapped outward for the Elvenking. Thranduil danced away, beheading the first snakes to slither into his chambers before his brain had even processed what it was seeing. He caught the door's edge with strong fingers and sent it flying on its hinges back towards its nook within the stone wall. The rushing breeze caused by the abrupt movement stirred the chilly air and sent a tiny shiver down the king's back, which only redoubled at the slither of snakes pouring beneath the door, thick and dark and constant.  
  
Linnaloth shrieked beside him, directing his attention away from his own horror and onto hers. Thranduil grasped her around the waist and lifted her into his arms, desperate to keep her from the poisonous fiends. Frantic, he searched for any escape to their predicament. Eyes, brain and hands worked separately but in cooperation with one another. His eyes swept the floor and ceiling for attackers for his hands to dispatch, while his mind grasped for any possible escape. The snakes were pouring forth in vast numbers, drawing ever closer to their prey, and Thranduil knew that if he did not stem the tide somehow, it would only been minutes before he lost this battle and their lives. That was unacceptable, and the king swung his wife onto the bed in time to sever a venomous mouth from its body. The dripping jaw rolled end over end to come to rest bloodily in the corner.  
  
"What happens?" Linnaloth cried, unable to contain the ridiculous question. She stood up on the soft mattress, feeling incredibly vulnerable and useless in their current predicament. She was unclothed and unarmed in the middle of a room teeming with enemies, and she could not manage to quell her panic no matter how hard she tried.  
  
Thranduil heard the quaver in his wife's voice and felt his anger mount. His fortress had been breached, his home compromised, and his wife was threatened in their chambers! Any of these things alone would be enough to ignite his anger, but together he thought he very well might combust. His cheeks and ears burned with a rage that the king could not squash and he slashed and hacked, cleaving the twisting masses as he made his way back to the door.  
  
The king shucked his robe quickly, then sliced the snakes the poured from beneath the door in half. The severed bodies spasmed, spurting foul fluid onto his bared skin. Resisting the urge to wipe the filth from his flesh, he stuffed his robe beneath the door, sealing the crevice against further invasion. Once accomplished, he whirled and scanned his chamber for any living serpent. One snapped as he turned and Thranduil skewered it, before grabbing its tail and hurling it full strength into a wall. It left a thick, inky trail as it slid to the floor.  
  
"Thranduil!"  
  
The panic in his wife's voice had him charging to her side. Linnaloth stood in the middle of their bed, snakes twisting up the four wooden posters. The Queen was scanning for any escape, feinting left then right to clear a path, swatting at them with pillows to knock them from their perches. But they kept coming, snapping on all sides of her, weaving and bobbing in concert with her movements, awaiting the chance to strike.  
  
Unaccountably, her husband stood before her on the bed and was swinging his sword in a wide arc at her neck. Green eyes grew round with shock as the breeze from the keen edge kissed her cheek and stirred her hair. Half a snake fell onto their pale sheets and stained them with foul poison. She recoiled from the twitching flesh and stepped backwards only to find herself drawn into her husband's strong embrace. She wanted to bury her face in his neck to escape from this horror, but she knew there was no time for such a luxury.  
  
"Are you hurt?" The king whispered, sword slicing through snapping snakes.  
  
"No." Her voice shook and she cursed her failing courage.  
  
He glanced her over to assure himself before drawing her tight to him with one arm. "Hold on, love," and her fingers tightened around him and dug into soft, pale flesh. He lashed out with his sword, chopping at the snakes on the intricately carved columns before him. When they were clear, he leapt from the bed and scooped his wife into his arms in one fluid movement. Thranduil hurried to the dressing table and sat the Queen upon it. He kissed her on the forehead, lips ghosting over flesh. "Get up on there." He withdrew an ornate dagger from the top drawer and slid it into Linnaloth's open hand. "Take this. Kill anything that gets near you."  
  
With that, the king turned to face the onslaught. 


	4. Of Anticlimax and Folly

Disclaimer: Must I really write this? Thranduil, Legolas, and their whole universe are the exclusive property of J.R.R. Tolkien. The original characters are mine. Or I'm theirs. Either way.

I would like to dedicate this Chapter to Aislynn Crowdaughter, my very first reviewer. Without her lovely reviews, I might have given up on posting entirely.

And to Daw the Minstrel and Gwyn, thank you for your encouragement. I hope that you will continue on this adventure with me.

-4-

Of Anticlimax and Folly

Thalgaladh raced through the halls of the palace, his mind shuffling through possibilities. How could they defeat this enemy that used their own air ventilation network against them? If they blocked the vents off, they sealed off their supply of fresh air. The keep was big, but there were many elves dwelling within the walls. How long before their air was gone?

To be perfectly honest, a lack of air was the least of the General's concerns. The likelihood of perishing at this unknown and unpredictable enemy's hands was far greater than that of suffocation. The plague of insects that were unleashed upon them was little more than a first wave: a warning. The new occupant of Dol Guldur had begun his attack upon the elves of Greenwood, and it was a battle for which they were woefully unprepared. The entire keep, indeed the entire kingdom was in disarray. Weapons that normally stood at the ready within the armory had been packed into crates for the migration. They'd spent the past weeks consuming their food supplies and packing up that which could be preserved for the journey. A prolonged siege of their mountain fortress would find the elves weakened with hunger, even considering the many carts of food. They could not afford delay. With redoubled urgency, Thalgaladh turned a corner only to slam directly into two elven warriors. He sprawled clumsily on the floor and lay stunned, staring at the deep cracks in the ceiling. 

Could anything be less dignified?

The General sat up to glare at the other elves, taking a deep satisfaction in the fact that they too, lay flat on their backs. A pained groan issued from one of the fallen elves and Thalgaladh chastised himself for so ignoble a feeling. He stood smoothly (refusing to even inwardly acknowledge the overcompensation) and glided toward the fallen elves. One hovered over the other, whispering reassurances so low that even Thalgaladh's keen ears could not detect them all.

Sensing their unwitting assailant's approach, Verenaur spat "You should watch where you are going!" The other elf knelt beside his fallen brother and Verenaur decided to punctuate his statement with a hateful glare.

His eyes widened as he met the unreadable eyes of General Thalgaladh. The silver haired elf arched a sly eyebrow at the young warrior and remained silent and stoic. He didn't smirk at the comical expression on the young warrior's face, though in truth, it was no easy feat. He saw the deep blush creep over the other elf, watched as the delicate pointed ears caught fire, before the platinum head bowed. "Pardon me, Lord Thalgaladh. I spoke out of turn."  


Thalgaladh waited a beat, allowing the young warrior to marinate in his misery a moment before chuckling and saying, "Nay. You are correct. I should watch where I am going." He patted the young elf's shoulder as a gesture of reassurance before glancing down at his other victim. Humor melted into concern as he took in the condition of the fallen elf. "What has happened?" he gasped, placing a comforting hand on the injured elf's brow. A low moan of pain greeted the gesture before the elf pressed into the palm and fell silent once more.

"We were caught in the hail." 

Thalgaladh nodded at the revelation and his brow folded. In truth, he hadn't given much consideration to the freakish weather, though now that oversight seemed foolish. Such a storm was indeed perilous. How many of his warriors had been caught in that hail? How many fell victim to the brutal tempest? His thoughts lighted upon the absent prince and missing search parties. What had become of them under such an evil sky? 

Luinaur twitched in an attempt to get upright, the sudden movement distracting Thalgaladh from his dark thoughts. The General pressed him back down, cradling his injured head and whispering, "Lie easy, little one. You've taken quite a knock on the head."

The injured head rattled a denial that Thalgaladh felt more than saw. Luinaur was weak, but quite obviously very determined. "We must help Legolas." Luinaur whispered, casting desperate bleary eyes at his brother. "We left him. How could we leave him?" He was mumbling and whimpering to himself, oblivious of his present surroundings. 

"I will help him, Luinaur, but you must stay here." Verenaur soothed. The injured youth moaned a protest, once more trying to drag himself vertical. Two sets of hands held him down until all the fight drained from him like the color from his face.

Thalgaladh's spine straightened at the exchange, his heart stuttering in his chest. Events were quickly shifting from bad to worse, and the General had the distinct impression that their situation would continue on its trend of deterioration for a long while yet. "What's this about Legolas? Where is the prince?"

"Stay here." Verenaur said, easing his brother against the wall. Luinaur bobbed his head once in affirmation, resigned in his fate to be left behind. Thalgaladh was hovering impatiently over the brothers, his question still hanging in the air unanswered. A brief brush of fingers over wounded forehead nearly sent the millennia old elf into an impatient tantrum, but Verenaur rose and said, "Come, my lord. We have little time. I will tell you on the way." 

-------------------------

"Rats, you say?" Thalgaladh said incredulously. Of course rats were no strangers to the mountains. Rats are not strangers to anyplace that might house food. In and of themselves, they are not evil beings. Foul perhaps, but not as Verenaur said. Not carnivorous swarms. 

Swarms. The word tugged at the unraveling ends of his composure. _Bugs and Rodents? Where is the common thread? _

"Thousands. And no ordinary rats, I tell you." Verenaur replied with almost as much haste as he moved. "They were fell beasts, servants of this shadow."

"Let us not get ahead of ourselves." The silver haired lord replied, ignoring the young one's exasperated harrumph. 

"I am telling you. Never have I seen their like before. They were large and fierce."

__

And you have seen so much, young one? The condescending reprimand remained safely tucked away in a corner of his mind. But like all wily beasts, it rattled at its cage for any chance of escape. "Rats, like all else, come in a variety of sizes." The General replied sagely, seeking to reassure them both.

"Why do you not believe me?" Verenaur finally said. "Do you think me so craven that a mere infestation of vermin would cause me to turn tail and flee like some child? Do you think the squeals of a mouse might frighten me enough to abandon my prince? Do you think the prince so weak that I might worry for his safety against a ferocious field mouse?"

The General checked his rising irritation. He understood that the elf's insolence as the offspring of fear and injured pride but Verenaur was testing the limits of his thinly stretched patience. With a mighty sigh of concession, Thalgaladh said, "I do believe you, Verenaur. I have seen much this night that makes me leery. I am simply trying maintain an open mind. It is best when looking upon something to dismiss our preconceptions, lest we miss the truth of the matter."

Verenaur nodded grudgingly, simultaneously glad and sorry for the peaceful end to the dispute. In truth, he wanted to fight. He needed it. His anger was multiplying at an alarming rate, tinting his perceptions in hues of red. A strong grip on his shoulder cleared his vision and mind, and suddenly the feeling was gone leaving only a vague imprint of itself on his heart. A footprint of sorts. "You speak true." With a lightness he did not feel, Verenaur joked, "It was fortunate that you ran into us, my lord." A smarmy smile spread across the young warrior's face.

Thalgaladh accepted the young elf's acknowledgment and ignored his joke. Under different circumstances he would have joined in with the humor, chiding the youth and telling him that in fact, they ran into him. But with their home under such an odd assault, and with the prince in apparent danger, the General was in no mood. His heart urged him forward, demanding that he quicken his pace to reach the prince. 

Thalgaladh's stomach flipped when they reached the heavy sealed door. He could hear them scratching and tapping at the doors, tearing through wood with claw and tooth. If the vermin had made it as far as the door and Legolas was not on this side, that meant that he'd been overtaken by them. Not the Prince! He could not let this happen. Desperate gray eyes scanned for anything of use while his mind howled within him for action. Legolas could be dying, or worse, and left as food for rats. His eyes passed over the tapestry of the Royal Crest hanging on the wall and fell on the lit torch.   


Making a decision, the Thalgaladh tore the tapestry from the wall. Verenaur stared with wide uncomprehending eyes as the General handed him the torch. 

"Listen very carefully. I am going to open this door and go in. Burn anything that gets out, count to five toss in the torch and seal this door behind me." While he was talking, Thalgaladh busied himself with shaking out and positioning the tapestry.

"What is your plan?" 

"I do not have time to explain. Just do as I say." Thalgaladh snapped, trying not to be harsh with the distraught warrior.

"How will you get out?" Verenaur asked, mesmerized by the General's actions. 

"We must keep this vermin from invading our home. Legolas and I will find another way out," his voice belying the grief that already gnawed incessantly at his heart. Until he found the prince he would not despair. And if his actions cost his life, then at least it would not be he who had to bring more ill news to his already overwrought king. His arm tensed on the door pull and Verenaur held his breath. Thalgaladh turned back to the young elf and said, "You must tell the king. Tell him all you've seen, and assure him that I will bring Legolas back to him."

Verenaur nodded and whispered an elvish prayer. Thalgaladh tore open the door and darted inside, casting the tapestry like a net.

----------------------

Opening his eyes was like peering through a gossamer veil. The hard stone behind his head grounded him, centered him. He couldn't just sit here and do nothing! He may have been knocked on the head, but he was lucid enough to comprehend that their home was under attack. 

Planting his feet and clutching the wall, Luinaur levered himself upright. Through the ringing in his ears he heard a strange hissing. Luinaur held onto the wall with both hands and moved toward the sound. The ground shifted beneath his feet and the wall trembled beneath his hands. Luinaur almost fell over, and he leaned his head on the wall. A small vibration tickled the flesh of his cheek. "What's this?" He murmured to himself before turning his head and placing his ear against the wall. 

The stone whistled an odd melody, intermittent tapping and humming keeping time. Had the notion not been so preposterous, or the head wound more severe, Luinaur might have believed that singing dwarfs had taken up residence within the walls of their home. And despite its ridiculousness, (or perhaps because of it) Luinaur could not shake the image of tiny dwarfs singing merrily as they hammered their way into the sputtering king's bed chambers. The bleeding elf snickered, closed his eyes and lay his head back against the wall.

The vibration against his cheek reminded him of what had induced the amusing image in the first place. Tamping down his ill advised sense of humor, the elf concentrated his addled brain on the sound. _Perhaps the rats have invaded the walls_. The idea certainly had more merit than tiny dwarfs. But there was no squeak and squeal, nor the tapping of claws on stone. No, he decided. The sounds of the rampaging rodents would forever haunt him, and this was not they. 

Puzzled, Luinaur lifted his head from the stone. The sound within the walls was faint, still buzzing beneath his hand. Without his ear pressed so intimately against stone, the sound became simple background noise. _Maybe my brain is swelling and inducing hallucinations. _He didn't particularly favor the idea, but it seemed the most likely. 

A new noise drew the injured elf's attention. Something overlaying the rattle and hum of the walls, although his brain couldn't place it. It sounded like steam and arrows interwoven with dried grain in a rolling barrel. An odd mixture of sounds for a certainty, and Luinaur could not resist its call. With stiff, pained movements, Luinaur traced the sound to its source, gripping the wall tightly for support. The stone continued its strange vibrato beneath his hands. He ignored it and moved on. _Dancing Dwarfs be damned. _

The pursuit led him through the winding corridors, the odd sound growing louder and more distinct as he approached his goal. Dread swept through him, lifting the injury induced fog from his brain as the elf realized exactly where the ominous sound was leading him: the Royal Chambers.

What could make such noise? What if it was some fell beast set upon them to destroy their king? Perhaps the creatures in the cave had been sent to devour the prince while something else dispatched the rest of the royals. Blinking his eyes to clear them as much as possible, the young warrior released the wall and began sprinting toward the hallway where the Royal Family resided. What if something had gained entry to the keep? What if the King and Queen had been compromised? The questions fired through his brain, each one upping his fear. Unlike his theory of tiny dwarfs, this one had merit. Something had attacked them tonight, and he had the scars to prove it. Would it not make sense for their unnamed foe in Dol Guldur to try and usurp the regents of Greenwood, leave the people weak and leaderless? The idea tugged at some odd memory of Chess: a game of war and strategy. Is not the main object of the game to capture the king? Does his elimination not cause the defeat and ruin of his entire army? And how, in fact is that usually accomplished? By eliminating the most powerful pieces until the king stood trapped and defenseless? 

Though Chess had never been his game, Luinaur felt almost certain that he'd pinned down its objective. And if Chess imitated battle, then could not battle imitate Chess. Dismissing the train of thought as fruitless and pointless, the injured elf spurred himself on, ignoring the pain that pounded fast and ferocious in his head. His legs wobbled, knees refusing to lock beneath him, and Luinaur almost went down on the floor. A bead of sweat trickled from his temple and down his cheek before disappearing into the thick mane of hair. It was too much for his injured body to endure, but the elf pushed through the strain, wiping absently at the blood-tinted sweat that soaked his temples. Luinuar stumbled again before regaining his balance and pushing onward, refusing to slow his pace.

He'd never felt such a mix of anticipation and anxiety before. Yet as he approached the final corridor, the moment of truth, the injured elf couldn't help but wonder if he really wanted to know, after all, what horrid beast could make such an unearthly noise. Pressing back his fears, Luinaur sped up and grasped the corner as he came to it to slingshot around the turn. The sight in the hallway caused him to pull up short and land flat on his butt. 

The hall had become a squirming mass of flesh. He'd expected one creature of deadly proportion, but this! The floor rolled rhythmically, undulating like the Long Lake during the stormy season. Luinaur backpedaled, regaining his feet as he gaped at the sight before him. Thousands of snakes! Thousands, lined the hallway, covering every inch of floor and wall with their fat, juicy bodies. Not a foothold to be found in the whole place, and Luinaur suddenly realized how ill prepared he was for this encounter--any encounter, for that matter. Unarmed, injured and alone against a sea of foes. 

__

Verenaur is going to kill me. If I'm not already dead, that is.

A snake wormed toward him, distracting him from his musings. Luinaur gripped it by its rattling tail and sent it flying down the hallway only to vanish into the throng. Without hesitation, he slipped around the corner to conceal himself from the thousands of serpents waltzing in the hallway. He rubbed at his aching head, willing his brain to work. What should he do? What could he do against such impossible numbers? He could not abandon the king and queen to such a fate. A tiny voice of reason whispered that they might not even be in their quarters. It was a fool's errand, a thousand poisoned foes against one unarmed, dazed elf. Still, he could not, **would not**, take the chance. Besides, his heart told him that if the Royals did not lie beyond the door, these fell beasts would not be so intent on gaining entrance. _How do I always get myself into these situations._ He just knew Verenaur would never leave off on this one. He could already hear the chiding, the scolding, the rants and raves. _'Did I not tell you to wait, Luinaur? Why do you never listen?' _

The injured elf gestured obscenely and definitively at the chiding voice of his brother, refusing to allow him the final word. Once accomplished, he mulled over all possible solutions, tossing out those that were impossible until he was left with the merely infeasible. He must destroy the snakes. A great revelation it was not, he knew, and there was still the question of how he might accomplish so colossal a task. But the logic remained that even if the king and queen were not in their chambers, the threat of the snakes' very presence remained. The one that he'd thrown was poisonous, for certain, and Luinaur had little doubt that they were all poisonous in their own rights. If this many thousands of snakes were allowed to live and roam the keep, the damage would be catastrophic. Hundreds of elves could be bitten, poisoned, perhaps even perish.

No! Luinaur would not allow such an occurrence. Not when he might prevent it.

Again, a grand idea. That only left the question of how. Leaning his head against the wall to still the pain, the injured elf pondered. What could he do? Damn it, he was no strategist, and for once in his life he'd fervently wished he'd paid closer attention to his brother as he'd tried time and time over to teach him the finer points of Chess. But the game had ever bored him, and after three moves, he found himself snatching up every piece he could with his most powerful moves. _To always play offense, dear brother, is to leave yourself quite vulnerable. _The brief scolding was always accompanied by the word 'Checkmate' and Luinaur would snarl and storm away from the cursed checkered board. Indeed, he was no strategist. He was a simple elf, a warrior, a servant of the king and his subjects…. The thought tickled something in his mind, waking it with a shouting start. His eyes snapped open and a huge grin split his face. "Kitchen duty, here I come."

----------------------

"What is the meaning of this?" The voice was muffled and indignant, and both Thalgaladh and Verenaur stood completely still. The tapestry stood tall and proud, covering the figure beneath it and dragging several yards of material on the floor. The colorful cloth moved and twisted erratically, puffing here and jerking there only to come to rest exactly as it had fallen. "What happens?"

Verenaur's lips pressed so tightly together that they were white, cheeks ballooning out with checked laughter. Thalgaladh tilted his head and smiled into his hand for a moment, unable to contain a small snort.

"I do not see the humor in this situation," the garbled voice stated with feigned dignity, resuming its struggles beneath the heavy tapestry. 

Verenaur could no longer control the peals of laughter that erupted from him. The elf grabbed his stomach as tears leaked from his clenched eyes. Legolas harrumphed audibly, which only served to exacerbate Verenaur's hysteria. "Forgive me, Legolas. You look like…like…I do not even know what you look like it's so ridiculous," he said before melting into hilarity.

Thalgaladh was older and therefore more able to control his mirth. "Forgive me, my prince," the silver haired elf said as he tried to peel the tapestry off the struggling elf. But the more Legolas struggled, the more wrapped up he became, and soon Verenaur was rolling on the floor.

"A c…coon!" He hiccupped. Tears leaked through clenched lids as he tried to choke out his determination again. "You l-look like a cocoon."

Legolas grew hot and restless beneath the heavy tapestry. He fought against it in the pursuit of air, but it seemed to only grow more constrictive around him. "I cannot breathe," he shouted, feeling panicked at being so entwined.

"Hold still, my prince." Thalgaladh said, seeking the edge of the material. Once found, he had to unwind it from around the bound prince three times before he was able to pull it from Legolas's head.

"Thank you." Legolas sighed turning to face his rescuers. When they met his eyes all humor dissolved from them. 

"Legolas! Ai, are you okay?" Verenaur exclaimed, rushing to the prince. Deep scratches and bite marks were visible all along the elf's arms, neck and face. His clothing was torn and bloodied, in some places shredded, revealing more deep welts on the creamy skin beneath. 

Thalgaladh leaned in to examine a particularly vicious bite on the prince's neck. The General swallowed down the rising anxiety at the knowledge that, had the wound been one inch to the right, the prince would surely have bled to death. Removing a handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it to the wound, the General said, "Are you hurt seriously anywhere, my prince?"

"Does my pride count?" Was the sardonic response, and Thalgaladh offered a small smile in response. Sighing, Legolas shook his head. "Nay. But I know not how it is possible. I was overcome by the foul beasts and I thought for certain that they would devour me."

Keeping his pressure on the bleeding neck wound, Thalgaladh scanned the dark cavern before him. "Where did the rodents go?" The General turned back to meet the bewildered eyes of the prince. A head shake and quick shrug was his only response. 

Verenaur lifted the tapestry and doubled it up, wrapping it around the injured prince's shoulders like a blanket. Legolas gathered the sides together and fixed Verenaur with a pointed glare. "Go ahead. You know you want to." 

To his credit, Verenaur only giggled at the invitation before concern crept back into his blue-green eyes. He traced the wicked path of a gash along the prince's jaw with one finger. "I should not have left you."

Legolas looked like he was going to argue the point. Verenaur placed his arm around his friend's shoulders and steered him from the cavern.

"How is Luinaur?" Legolas inquired, face etched with concern.

Verenaur shook his head. "Ill. I left him to come and search for you." 

"Then we must go to him now."

Thalgaladh closed and resealed the door. The fortunate turn of luck did nothing to allay the sense of foreboding that polluted his soul. In fact, Thalgaladh felt it even more keenly now. It was as if something lurked just over his shoulder and beyond his peripheral vision. Despite the futility of the act, he could not resist the urge to turn his head and seek out the source of the feeling. Cautious gray eyes scanned the area and found nothing, to no great surprise. Still, the feeling of something hovering in the darkness awaiting an opportunity to pounce clung insistently to the forefront of his mind and the General had to tear his attention from the view over his shoulder to the one before him. "I must speak with the King. You two go and take care of Luinaur. Get a healer to look at that head wound, and then come join us." Thalgaladh began to walk away, but paused for a moment to look back at the bleeding prince. His heart grew cold at the thought of some ill befalling Thranduil's youngest. He already felt fully responsible for Belegalad's foolish undertaking, and if something were to happen to Prince Legolas in their halls…the General cast off the evil thoughts. "Take care of yourselves," he stated as he exited the hall.

----------------------

Thranduil stood panting in the middle of his chambers, eyes sweeping the floor for any trace of movement. The chamber was carpeted in a thick layer of flesh and fluid, and Thranduil poked each piece with his sword to assure himself of its death.

A soft touch on his bare shoulder blade alerted him to Linnaloth's presence. The king turned to his wife, scanning her for any sign of injury. "Are you alright?" He reached out for her with sticky fingers, hand pausing before it connected with her face. To touch her with such foul fingers, to besmirch her fairness in any way, was little less than sacrilege in his eyes. 

She smiled at him, eyeing the fingers that hovered by her cheek. Sensing his reluctance, Linnaloth leaned into his caress, closing her eyes at the warm touch. She stepped forward and claimed his lips, clutching him to her desperately. After a long, lingering moment in his arms, she broke the kiss and whispered, "Perhaps now we should get dressed."

He smiled into her hair before stepping back to retrieve clean clothes. The king drew on his clothes, fervently wishing he had time to cleanse himself properly. "I told you that I would take care of everything, did I not?" 

She beamed at him a moment, before reality crashed on her. "What do we do now? We are quite trapped."

Shirt hanging loose, Thranduil stepped up behind his wife. Talented fingers worked the tiny buttons on her dress, pressing each pearl through its corresponding hole. When he reached the top, he smoothed the wrinkles from the shoulders of the gown and placed a soft kiss on her neck beneath her hairline. "I know not," he confessed to his immense displeasure. "But fear not, love."

"I know. You shall take care of everything," the final syllables sticking and flowing like warm honey. 

"Do you mock me, my lady?" The king teased, glad for his wife's improving mood. 

She turned in his embrace, small fingers tracing the bumps of his ribs on their path around his neck. She placed a short, wet kiss on his Adam's apple before leaning back to look into his vivid blue eyes. "Always, my lord."

He smiled fondly at her, but the look melted away leaving behind only the hard look of a poised warrior. His eyes shifted to the closed door, all his senses turned toward what lay beyond it. Something was happening outside, and the King's grip grew brutal on his wife's hips.

"Thranduil?" Her voice was small and frightened, and she found herself being ushered backwards through the bedroom.

The closet door swung open and she was pushed inside. Her husband was barking commands at her so quickly that her brain was having trouble keeping up. "Stay in here! Do not come out, no matter what you hear! Stuff the crack beneath the door tightly, so that nothing may get in." From the back of his pants he withdrew the bejeweled dagger he'd given her earlier. "Take this."

She wrapped her fingers around the golden hilt. "What about you?"  


"Do not worry about me."

"But…"  


"Do not argue," he snapped, his voice harsher than he intended. A deep breath steadied him and he explained, "My love, I need to know that you are safe." Wide wet eyes sparkled, and the king could not resist rubbing his thumbs beneath them. "You must trust me," he whispered. 

Linnaloth nodded and declared, "I do."

A soft kiss, and the world was black.


	5. Small Victories

Disclaimer: Not mine. I'm making no money. For entertainment only. 

-5-

Small Victories

The trip to the kitchen and back had proven quick and uneventful, giving Luinaur time to review his plan. He had to admit that even for him it was quite foolish. The odds of it working the way he planned were slim, and the results could prove catastrophic. He remembered someone once telling him that sometimes the cure was worse than the ill. At the time it had made no sense to him. But now…

He unloaded a crate from the cart, lay it on the floor and pulled out a full jug. He pulled the cork from the top and sniffed the contents. _Odd that such a potentially lethal substance should bear no odor. _With a nonchalant shrug, the elf poured a thin line of the viscous liquid across the width of the corridor. Once done, he threw the jug into the seething mass of creatures, watching the opaque arc rain down on them. The snakes hissed and snapped in response, twisting over and under each other to grasp at the offending elf.

Luinaur smirked and tossed two more jugs, each to a separate corner, before pulling the torch from its place on the wall. The snakes wove in and around one another, each movement further slicking them. "That's it," he murmured, eyes sparkling with an amalgamation of pain and amusement. "Grease yourselves up good and proper." He cocked back his arm to let the torch fly.

Something clamped onto his wrist with bone-crunching force and the torch slipped from his fingers. Luinaur's eyes snapped shut. He braced himself for the consuming flames but they never came. Taking a chance, he cracked open one eye and started back at the fury reflected in the gray eyes before him. 

"What exactly are you doing?" 

Luinaur did not answer except to gesture at the hallway with his free hand. Thalgaladh followed the motion with his eyes and gasped at the sight. He dragged the warrior backward two steps, wrapping one arm around his chest for support.

"Valar!" 

"My sentiments exactly."

Thalgaladh stood the elf up and turned him around, observing the way he swayed on his feet. The youth suffered; it was plain to see. The bandage wrapped about his injured head was soaked with fresh blood, indicating that Luinaur had either reopened his wound, or it had never ceased bleeding in the first place. Neither option was particularly favorable. The fair face was pasty, covered with an unnatural sheen of sweat. Only great exertion should cause such sweat to bead on an elf's upper lip, and then it would be accompanied by ruddiness. The elf was ghost pale as he panted and wobbled. Thalgaladh pushed through the worry that invaded his mind, determined to deal with the young elf's failing health later. The General steadied him on his feet and turned back to the volatile and surreal problem in the corridor. "What was your plan?"

"To burn them all. I soaked them with oil from the kitchen, and was just about to ignite the pyre when you arrived."

Thalgaladh skewered the young warrior with a glare. "And how exactly were you planning on extinguishing this blaze?"

"Salt." Luinaur gestured to the small cart that he'd dragged from the kitchen. Thalgaladh's eyebrows drew together, crinkling his forehead in plain confusion. "It always works in the kitchen. Or so they tell me." He added the last bit as a speedy afterthought, practically tripping over himself in an effort to spit the words out. Conspicuously crimson after so casual an admission, the elf offered a helpless shrug and sheepish smile.

Some part of his mind wanted to inquire as to why exactly an Elven Warrior knew how to extinguish kitchen fires, but now was no time for mischief. Still, Thalgaladh could not contain the teasing smile that spread across his face. The smirk vanished almost as soon as it appeared and the General's face was once more a mask of placid authority. "Are you certain this will work?" This whole plan did not sit well with the older elf. The idea of setting fire to the hall just outside his king's bedroom was nerve racking.

"No." He said dryly, noting the General's deep frown. "But I did not know what else to do. There are simply too many."

Thalgaladh eyed the torch in his hand. Should he do this reckless thing? What if the consequences were too high to bear? What would Thranduil have him do? His brain turned over ideas, ways of extracting the king and queen from the room. They could use the air-shafts, but if the bugs breached the keep, then they would be overcome before they made it to safety. Besides, snakes could easily climb walls and pursue the Royals into the ducts, making them easy targets. A small battalion of elves might be able to destroy the snakes, but did they have the time to gather one? No. Taking a different tack, he pondered charging through the creatures. If they ran through the snakes, there was a chance that they might be able to avoid being bitten. And even if they were, they would more than likely be able to treat whatever poison might be injected. Was he willing to take that chance? With his own life, perhaps. But with Luinaur's life and the lives of his King and Queen?

No.

Heaving a mighty sigh, the General bowed his head. His normally astute mind offered no viable and logical alternatives to the rash plan. He wondered if this new found obtuseness was a byproduct of the shadow before casting off all doubts: they would not serve him in the coming conflicts. He needed to be clear and focused if any of them were to escape this night with their lives. For a long moment he pondered and weighed his options before making his determination. "We have no choice," he grunted, cocking back his arm and pitching the torch. 

----------------------

The gray flesh melted into the stone around it. Slight scratches on the wooden door had the desired effect and the obstacle dissipated into a chaos beneath him. Stealthily creeping along the stony ceiling, it gained its entrance unseen, undetected. The heavy shadows clung and moved with it like the finest spider silk, caressing wiry muscles as they flexed and relaxed. 

It crawled.

The stone beneath it was hard and cold, but it did not feel. Claw tipped fingers clasped handhold after handhold, as it shimmied through the passageways. Tight to the walls and shadows it clung, eyes sweeping to and fro. It felt a gaze pin it and it froze, every muscle locked against all movement. Nose and ears twitched, fingers boring into rock beneath them. 

Something approached. Passed with a shiver and scratch, and most importantly, not a glance.

A tongue, grayish-pink, passed languidly over near invisible lips, catching stray droplets of blood in its wake. A low rumble began in its throat, whether purr or growl even it did not know. The sound rolled like thunder and the stone hummed in response. Its memory was blank, its appetite unsatisfied. Deep hunger swirled in its belly as it churned around the hearts and brains of the furry vermin it destroyed. Not enough. It could never be enough. A deep whiff and the creature was moving again, following the sweet and acrid odors, trailing its instincts ever deeper.

----------------------

Thranduil stared at his splayed pale fingers. The wood beneath them was thick and sturdy, for certain. Yet, to think that it was all that stood between his wife and whatever new evil came to claim their lives ate away at him. 

No. Not all! 

The Elvenking whirled with renewed fervor. Burning blue eyes scanned the chambers around him for any escape. His eyes lighted on the door which stood in silent mockery. There stood such an easy escape! All he need do is swing it open and charge through the venomous villains that lay beyond. Were he alone he would not hesitate to do exactly that. But he would not risk Linnaloth in such a foolhardy plan. With a curse that was no more than breath, Thranduil continued his perusal.

The stone that had ever served as protection now held him hostage. The walls were solid and impenetrable, which was precisely the reason he had designated this area for his chambers. What had been their bedroom might very well be their tomb if he did not find any escape. From somewhere deep within his mind, Oropher's voice jeered at him. _Did I not tell you, my son? A true king always has a way out._

The curse when it came was loud and vibrant, and the king, despite his many long millennia, rolled his eyes at the authoritative voice. He did not need this right now. He had enough to deal with without adding his father's posthumous disapproval into the mix.

Thranduil sat upon the gore soaked bed and rubbed his aching head. To sit here idle in this chamber awaiting attack from some fell beast was madness! Yet where was the alternative? His first instinct was to attack his enemies. Yet such an action would leave his wife unguarded. To stay and wait was to play along with his enemy's plans, and keep him isolated while who knows what happened to his people. Around and around he went.

__

This posture bears a remarkable resemblance to sulking, Thranduil. 

Gnashing his teeth, the Elvenking stood up and walked to the closet door. He could sense more than hear Linnaloth's quiet breathing beyond the wood and wondered if she heard him cursing and muttering like some madman.

Turning on his heel he strode back to the bed, poking at the dead snakes with the point of his sword, before whirling and walking toward the chamber door.

__

So you've decided that pacing is the answer then, my son? The sarcasm in his inner Oropher was unmistakable, and Thranduil growled. 

"What am I supposed to do?" He shouted, and then snorted at his own loss of control.

__

Get a grip on yourself, the inner voice chided. _What if someone should see you ravening like a lunatic?_

Indeed.

The king took a deep calming breath, wrinkling his nose at the new odor. Smoke.

"What is this, now?" He practically whined before he could censor himself. He couldn't help but cringe at the note of petulant desperation in his tone.

-----------------------

"I told him to wait right here!" 

Legolas could not help but smirk at the note of incredulity he heard in his friend's voice. "Peace, mellon nin. You act as though this is the first time Luinaur has defied your wishes."

"But he was injured," he reasoned, as though that should explain everything. "What if something has happened to him?"

Ordinarily, Legolas would have found the idea of his friend falling victim to some evil in his home ridiculous. This evening's ominous occurrences convinced him otherwise and all levity melted from the prince's face like frost in springtime. Something from without attacked. But what was worse was that Legolas sensed a darkness within as well. "Come, we will find him." 

"He never listens!" Verenaur declared as they began searching.

"And you do?" He maintained the light banter, but the dread crept up, tickling unpleasantly from the back of his neck to the base of his spine. 

"Do not take his side." Verenaur scowled at the prince, oblivious of his dilemma.   
  
"I am not taking sides. I am merely making an observation." The prince declared. A slight tremor passed through his aching body. Long fingers clutched tighter to the tasseled edges of the bright tapestry in a subconscious search for warmth. The gesture did not go unnoticed.

"Are you well, Legolas?" He recognized the ridiculousness of the question before he uttered it. The prince was far from well. Now that they were a few hours old, his injuries had a chance to appear in their full glory. The deep scratches had ceased bleeding, the creamy skin around them swelling and purpling magnificently. Blood had dried and caked in the elven braids. Verenaur felt a morbid curiosity concerning the origins of said blood. 

The new injuries only exacerbated the bone weariness that he'd seen in the prince over the past weeks. The bluish half moons that bracketed Legolas's eyes had deepened and darkened, the color so vivid that in the low light it could easily be black. The usually bright blue eyes were glazed and muted, and suspiciously red. His usually vibrant and jovial friend was drawn and gaunt, and utterly exhausted. And their battle had only begun. Verenaur's concern metamorphosed into fear for the youngest son of Thranduil.

A small smile creased Legolas's face, brightening the pain-dulled features. "Do not worry for me, Mellon-nin."

The reply did little to assuage Verenaur's apprehension, for the prince had not answered his question. And yet, if Legolas felt well enough for evasion and ambiguity he probably shouldn't be too concerned. When Legolas stopped deflecting, then would Verenaur have good cause to worry. 

"Where do you suppose Luinaur went?" Legolas wondered, seeking a respite from his friend's critical gaze. He understood Verenaur's concern, but they did not have time for his usual hovering. Something pressed at his mind and urged him forward. Things in their home were awry and haste was the only acceptable course of action. Later he would allow his friend to pick at each individual scrape and flagellate himself all he wanted. For now, they had to move on.

A heaved rush of disapproving breath answered the question. "Knowing him, he is doing the most foolish thing imaginable."

-------------------------

Wisps of platinum curled into brown balls around a soot coated face. The fire burned hot and bright as only an accelerated flame could. Acrid black smoke drifted toward the ceiling, staining it to match the walls and floor beneath it. Everywhere snakes slithered to escape the blazing inferno. But Luinaur had done his job well and thoroughly soaked the perimeter of the hallway leaving the foul creatures with no escape. Each desperate wriggle served only to ignite other snakes as they rattled and hissed in death throes.

Flames leapt and danced, twisted and climbed walls gracefully, throwing bright orange light into the deep shadows of the cave. They grew, feeding on oil, flesh and themselves, rising higher and hotter to nip and lick at the heavy oak door to the Royal Chambers.

Fire was a stubborn beast, for a certainty. Deny it one source of food and it would find something altogether different to consume. The oil had burned up first and fast, feeding the fire long enough for it to engulf the snakes. The snakes' bodies were all cinder now, burnt into tiny blackened coils of ash and teeth. Without oil or flesh to feed the flames, they cooled and lowered, sending tentative exploratory tendrils up the heavy wooden door. 

The lump that rose in Luinaur's throat tasted suspiciously like his stomach. He swallowed, hoping to choke down the anxiety in the face of this fire that he'd unleashed. But try as he might, he couldn't shake the overwhelming feeling that they would not be able to extinguish the flames, and it would be their design--his design--that ended the reign of the Thranduil and Linnaloth. 

"Now, it is time!" Thalgaladh cried out, charging into the dying fire to extinguish the blaze.

The General and warrior began dumping salt by the bag around the edges of the fire. The flames petered out beneath the salt's weight, but refused to die. Instead they clung stubbornly to the door frame, blackening the thick wood in a battle for survival. An industrious coil clasped onto the robe that was wedged beneath the door and lit it up like the Anor at dawn. The robe blackened sending wave after smoky wave up the door.

The young warrior realized with sickening certainty that his premonition was realizing itself before his very eyes. The enemy was defeated, but this night might yet claim the lives of the King and Queen of Greenwood. And what of Legolas? He too might have fallen to this shadow.

__

That too, is your fault. The voice that whispered in the back of his aching head was not his own, but that did not make it any less accurate. It was for his sake that Legolas had stayed behind to face the endless wave of rats. 

"No." He whispered the denial like a prayer drawing his companion's attention. He paid no heed to the inquisitive gaze upon him. Instead, Luinaur grabbed the flaming garment, the heat and fire blistering the skin from his fingers to his elbow. He cried out at the intense agony, but refused to relinquish his grip on the burning material. The fire wrapped around him, lapping and kissing his white flesh until it charred. Still he pulled and tugged at the burning garment until he freed it from beneath the door. 

His flesh was melting, curling back from his muscles like burning parchment. It was unlike any other pain in the whole of existence, a pain external and internal, and his body vibrated under the assault. The heat from the fire blasted into his eyes, dissolving the welling tears before they'd had a chance to make their pilgrimage down his face. 

__

Your fault. They shall all die and it will be your fault.

He blinked at the heat and wondered if his eyelashes had burned away. He could smell burning hair, burning cloth, burning skin until the heat seared the tender flesh of his nostrils and he smelled no more. Still did his fingers cling to their burden. He had to do this! He had to save the king and queen! 

The skin of his hands matched the blistered wood of the door. It was brown and red, withering and receding in on itself much like the bodies of the ashen snakes he treaded upon. And even though his mind demanded it, he would not release the robe. Though it was free from the door, he could not let go. He waved it in the air in an attempt to extinguish it. But the fire was roaring loudly and he whipped it away from the door, away from his king, the flaming belt lashing him across the cheek.

Luinaur spun and ran, trying to escape the agony of his own body. His hands refused to uncurl and drop the deadly material. The choice, it seemed, was no longer his, for the soft materials of the robe had melted themselves onto the flesh of his fingers. He tried to tear away the burning cloth and each weakened tug on the fiery robe tore charred skin. Screaming, he fought to unfurl his powerful hands, but the muscles stubbornly refused his commands. They remained clenched in protest. He waved the garment wildly, flailing his arms, mindless of the possibility that such action might set his hair or garments ablaze. He only sought escape from the red agony that comprised his whole universe. He howled in helpless impotence as red shifted to black, and he collapsed onto the ashen floor.


	6. Strange Conjurations

Disclaimer: I own nothing except my dog and my car. And copious amounts of shoes. Legolas, Thranduil, etc, are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is for entertainment only.

-6-

Strange Conjurations

It was stuffy for such a big closet. The air was so close, so stale, that she thought she might suffocate before she escaped. The smells of silk and linen were polluted by something dank and moist. She crinkled her nose at the acrid odor, opting to breathe through her mouth to mute it. She pressed tight to the back wall, hugging her knees close to her, not sure if the stone at her back was more comforting or disconcerting. 

Resting her head on the wall, Linnaloth tried to think about anything other than the small dark space. She closed her eyes to picture the vast forest around her: the mighty beeches that climbed and reached with spindly fingers toward the singing stars; the lush canopy that blanketed her home, protecting her people from both rain and sun. This vast forest had been her home since her birth, and never had she left its embrace. She had heard tales of the glory of other Elven Lands: the mighty mallorn trees of Ló rien, so grand that the Galladrim had built cities in their boughs; the wistful beauty of Imladris, nestled in its fertile valley on the far side of the Misty Mountains. Her late father-in-law Oropher had waxed poetic on the magnificence of Doriath, and her husband would often whisper about the sanctity of Valinor when the weight his rule grew heavy upon him. But never had she longed for anything beyond her own borders. The Great Wood sang its song loud and clear, and its harmony reverberated through her soul. So in the darkness of that closet, she tilted her head back and began to hum along with the tree song that echoed through her blood. 

She could see it all so clearly: the vivid greens and blues highlighted with stark white sunlight and she smiled at the picture. Warm peace filled her mind as the dank closet melted away and left her standing in the lush wood. She hummed louder and clearer, awaiting the forest's reply. 

The reply, when it came, was not what she'd expected. 

As she hummed the greens browned and the blues faded to grays. She squeezed her eyes tighter in a vain attempt to reclaim the beauty. She focused on recalling the colors, hummed the springtime song to invoke the colors of life and rebirth. But the harder she groped, the more tainted the image became. Trees withered and blackened, their leaves littering the earth below; the sky clouded, and the light of Anar seemed somehow dimmed as it filtered onto the barren boughs of Greenwood. The whole world was Shadow and the trees sang a lament until their voices were stolen as their beauty, and all was silent.

Linnaloth snapped from her nightmare trembling at the bleak vision. Her lip trembled and she fought the urge to weep for the fate of her beloved wood. She tried to redirect her thoughts, to divert them from the horrible and paramount truth that her home would fall to the Shadow. Her thoughts shifted to her sons, her brave Belegalad and her sweet Legolas. What would they do in such a desolate wood? Would they be forced to abandon their home? What would become of them this night? 

She shook her head resolutely, refusing to allow herself to despair. There was no point in reflecting on her sons while she sat locked in a closet. To do so would only have her tearing the hair from her idle head, sweaty head.

__

Sweaty? She paused, wiping the back of her hand across her brow. It came away damp. _Is it getting hot in here?_

As soon as the thought formulated, she realized that it was indeed quite hot. Linnaloth took a deep breath hoping to cool herself down a bit, but the air in the closet was so warm that she was half convinced it did not exist. She ran one finger under the collar of her dress, drawing the stifling material away from her throat for a momentary respite. When she released it, it only seemed to hug tighter to her moist flesh. 

__

I cannot breathe!

Panic welled up within her, setting her heart to pound uncomfortably in her throat. She closed her eyes tightly and began counting her breaths, forcing her body to calm and her mind to focus on anything that wasn't the small cramped space. Once again she summoned the image of the forest to aid her. All that she saw was a stripped, spindly wood, drenched in death.

What was going on? Certainly she'd felt the cold shadow breathing down their necks; she was no fool. The woods to the south whimpered while they could, begged for aid before their voices were snuffed out like a candle. She and Thranduil had been discussing the growing threat in the south for decades, and planning for the eventual battles for years. 

Why now did she feel so unprepared? And why did this vision leave her so bereft?

Thin bejeweled fingers clenched at the warmed hilt of the dagger. The gold of her emerald ring rasped against hilt, emitting the tiniest sound. Her body convulsed when she heard it, and she whispered an undignified curse at her own foolishness. She twisted her hands on the hilt, feeling the moisture that eased their movement. She had to calm down! She filled her lungs and released, hoping that the simple act of breathing would still her trembling body. But her heart thundered in her chest and ears without pause, lending pulse to the darkness. It was not long before the weighty darkness pressed and eased on her skin in time with the sound that filled it and her. She covered her ears to block the sound, curled up to avoid the vise of the Shadow. 

The hilt clacked painfully into her cheek directing her attention once again to its weight and texture. It was the only cool thing remaining in the inferno of the closet. Her pulse thrummed ever louder, so loud now that she could barely hear the breaths she was heaving into her thin frame. She gulped mouthfuls of air, but it was hot. Too hot to breathe. Like taking a deep breath too close to the camp fire and finding your face ashy and nostrils singed. She tried to calm her breathing as consciousness blurred and fuzzed on her. She just needed to focus.

It was too loud to think!

She had to stop that infernal racket. Then she could think again. Then she'd be able to control her breathing. She placed the flat of the blade against the soft flesh of her wrist, letting the metal cool her skin for a moment. She felt her pulse pound viciously in her wrist, kicking at the blade above it. She clenched her fingers and pressed down, intent on digging out the source of the noise.

"_What am I supposed to do?" _The voice was small and distant, but it snapped her attention to the sealed doorway. The sound vanished, her breathing calmed and the queen blinked into the darkness. Clarity came fast and hard, and Linnaloth gasped at what she'd done. She ran the thumb of her right hand over the soft skin of her left and felt warm stickiness. She rubbed along the cut to judge its severity. It stung, but no more, and the bleeding was minor. She'd barely scored the skin, and it would no doubt be healed completely in a few short hours. She was not at all concerned about it. 

She was, however, concerned about the speed an efficiency of the Shadow that assaulted them. Linnaloth had never considered herself a weak minded creature. She had lived to see the face of Middle Earth change, had witnessed and welcomed the coming of the Sindarin princes to the bosom of the Silvans. Many of her people had rebelled against the rule of Doriath's and Lindon's refugees, but she did not. The trees had whispered to her of their coming, and the forest sang in welcome. Even then had she felt the growing Shadow in Mordor, and she believed that the Sindarin Princes would prove to be the salvation of her people. Soon, others believed her. 

Mere months after their first meeting at the foot of Aman Lanc, Thranduil and Linnaloth were bound to one another. Oropher had welcomed the Silvan Princess, as he'd always called her, as his daughter, and kept an open ear to her advice concerning the encroaching Shadow. Ever had she been sensitive to its presence. How now could she succumb so quickly? Had Thranduil not shouted…

The memory of her husband's exclamation had the queen on her feet and moving to the door. She groped blindly in the dark, her fingertips finally grazing the cool wood. Palms flat on wood, she pressed an ear intimately to the door. No sound issued from the room beyond and she longed for just a quick glance, a peek at whatever tableau lay beyond. 

She struggled with the urge before pushing it away. If something lay beyond the door, then Thranduil would take care of it. She liked to chide him for his inflated ego, but the simple fact was her husband was a fierce and capable warrior. Opening the door might very well distract him at a critical moment. She stepped back into the closet, resuming her place in the far corner so as to avoid any temptation the doorknob within arm's reach might offer. She would be patient and wait. For now.

------------------------

Verenaur and Legolas strode quickly through the hallways scanning for any sign of their injured comrade. Verenaur was still pontificating on the many reasons that his brother was an ill-mannered, immature knave. Legolas had ceased listening to the rant, favoring his friend with small grunts of affirmations at each dramatic pause. The prince instead was focusing on their path, which somehow seemed long and unfamiliar. He scanned the passageways over and over, examining each intersection as though he were trying to navigate his way through some foreign place rather than his own home. He felt as though he were moving round and round and getting nowhere.

The corridors were darkened, all torches either extinguished or removed and Legolas found himself slowing in his march. Something was amiss. The prince knew where he was, and yet, he would have sworn that he'd passed this point minutes before. Verenaur was still expostulating on the many ways he would repay his wayward brother for defying him when Legolas halted. Verenaur fell mercifully silent and turned curious eyes to his friend. "What is it Legolas? Do your hurts trouble you?"

Legolas made no reply, just stared first right then left, eyes sweeping the vicinity. His stomach grew sour, his head light, and there was an itch just beyond his reach. He shifted beneath the heavy tapestry, rubbing his back on the scratchy material, seeking some relief to the nagging irritation. A dull throb began behind his eyes and he squinted into the darkness.

Verenaur had drifted silently to the prince's side, glancing between his friend and the hallway that had captured his undivided attention. Legolas could feel his friend's eyes on him, could hear the unspoken question. He made no reply, for there was no reply to make. He continued to peer out into the absolute darkness that had claimed the interior of his home. His eyes lost their focus, pupils eclipsing the blue. 

A small flash in the dark caught the prince's attention and he focused quickly on it. He narrowed his eyes, hoping to pinpoint the source of his misgiving, but came up with nothing. There was nothing there. "Did you see that?" he asked Verenaur.

"See what?" Verenaur tried to follow Legolas's line of vision to a target. All that stood at the end of that path was darkness. He glanced back at the adamant prince. Legolas's face was tight, eyes unblinking, and Verenaur felt his heartbeat pick up its tempo. Long ago had he learned that simply because one did not see something did not mean it is not there. 

Legolas shook himself out of his reverie. "Perhaps it was nothing." His voice held no conviction and Verenaur cast him a doubtful glance. 

A shuffle overhead, scratching and tapping against stone, and Legolas whipped his head up and around seeking the source. Half of him expected to find nothing again. The darkness had been playing with his mind for a while, teasing him with flashes of images that led him nowhere. Such thinking left him quite unprepared for the heavy body dropped onto him. 

The weight drove him to the ground and settled on him, long limbs anchoring him to the cold stone. The impact drove the air from his lungs and wrought tears from his eyes. Long, icy fingers clutched his throat, blocking his airflow; sharp, jagged claws bit into the flesh of his neck. Legolas thrashed beneath the body, trying to dislodge it. He felt it tighten its grip around his body and throat. White lights flashed across the blank canvas of his vision, and he snaked his hands up to pry at the ones around his throat. He blinked in a furious attempt to focus on his attacker. The perfect darkness offered no hint of the creature upon him. 

He pinched an icy digit, wormed his finger beneath it to grant himself a small respite. A drop of cool air wiggled past the dam in his throat, and his lungs shuddered for more. A flex of palm against his Adam's Apple and claws bit deeper, fingers squeezed harder. 

His face was growing warm and his chest was burning in deprivation. He could feel his grip on consciousness weakening. Legolas bucked as hard as he could, his body undulating against the cold stone. The grip on his hips and throat lessened and the prince managed to suck in a little bit of reviving air. Fueled by adrenaline and desperation, he bucked again, and again. Before the creature had a chance to reseat itself upon him, Legolas lashed upwards with fist and head, driving his forehead into the creature's nose. 

The incredibly satisfying crunch of cartilage and bone was accompanied by the dull thud of a dropping body. Something brushed his knee in the darkness and he scooted away from it. He slid back against the wall panting heavily and peering wide-eyed into the thick textured darkness. That he could see nothing was disconcerting. Legolas touched his throat, fingers sticky with his own blood. He held his hand before his face, unable to discern the lines of his stark fingers through the tapestry of black. His heart was pounding in an effort to violently escape its calcified cell, each beat forcing scorching blood through his oxygen starved body. He was certain that his ribs were going to crack from the shear force of his heartbeat.

A flash in the darkness blossomed bright in his brain and drew all Legolas's attention. He narrowed in on it, levering himself up the wall, still leaning heavily on it, still gulping huge mouthfuls of air. The slight shadow moved toward him, and the prince found he had to squint into the black in an effort to keep it in sight. When it was right before him, he lunged at it, swinging both fists together and catching its head between them. The move doubled his attacker over. Seizing the advantage, Legolas clasped both hands together and drove them between the creature's shoulder blades, dropping it completely to the floor.

Legolas kicked at its ribs, and it howled at the pain. A satisfied smile slid over the prince's features. His fingers twitched longingly for a blade to dispatch this foe. He cursed himself for venturing out without a weapon, and knew for a certainty that his father would chastise him for so foolish an act.

The creature had made its way to its knees, gasping and grunting in some foul tongue. The prince's brow furrowed under the weight of the scowl that arranged his features. One long fingered hand clasped at his calf. Legolas stepped easily away before reaching a decision.

He would simply have to beat it to death. There was no other answer.

Determined, he stalked over to the hunched form only to find it skittering out of reach. It rose to its full height before him, a dark smudge against a black backdrop, and clasped both his shoulders in a firm grip. Its face was impossibly close, hot breath ghosting across his cheek. 

Razor teeth, jagged and yellowing filled his mind though his eyes saw nothing. A faint touch at his bleeding neck indicated his foe's intentions.

__

It means to have my throat!

Legolas tore himself from its grasp, lashing out with fist and foot in an effort to stun or disable the creature. The blows had little impact, the shadow still clinging to him fiercely. He had to get away. Or kill it. Yes, he had to kill it!

Teeth bared, Legolas threw all his weight forward into the solid shadow that held him. It stumbled under the ferocity of the attack, and Legolas clasped both hands around its throat. With all his strength he squeezed, hoping to choke the life from this servant of the shadow. He heard a choked gasp from invisible lips and smiled at it.

__

Kill him.

The words resonated within him striking his muscles with the expert efficiency of a harpist. He redoubled his efforts, fingers cramping from the strain. He longed to wring the life from this evil form, to feel its bones snap and cave under his might.

Pain exploded in his left temple and he reached for it involuntarily. His eye was tearing, head pounding and too late he realized that he'd lost his precious grip on his enemy. A blow from the right caught him on his cheekbone, and that eye too began ruthlessly tearing up. 

So close. He'd been so close to victory, to escape, to murder. He'd been so close that he wanted to wail at the loss.

An iron grip settled around him and he could do little but thrash and moan. Exhaustion soaked him, body, mind and soul, and Legolas fought the urge to weep with it. He would not grant this enemy the satisfaction of knowing that not only had it defeated him, it had destroyed him. The prince heaved a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob, and knew his time was over.

His captor grunted at him, something foul and unintelligible, but almost sounded

/forgive me, my prince/

like words. In the moment before the darkness claimed him, Legolas reflected on the strange conjurations of a desperate mind. 

------------------------

Thalgaladh gaped in disbelief at the events unfolding before him. He'd heard the murmured 'no,' and then the young elf actually reached into the fire and grabbed the burning robe. The smell of burning skin and hair assaulted the general's nose just as the pained screams did his ears. 

"No!" He shouted, rushing to the elf. He groped for the burning material, hoping to catch it and dash out the flames. But Luinaur only thrashed madly, resembling a wolf whipping around small prey in order to still their struggles.

"Let it go, Luinaur! Release it now!" He could see blisters welling up on the archer's hands, but still the fingers did not relinquish their clasp. Thalgaladh gripped the robe tighter and pulled, but Luinaur tugged harder, sending the belt in a flaming arc. The belt grazed the young warrior's cheek, leaving a singe on the sooty skin. Tears streaked muddy trails down his face, and he screamed again. 

Luinaur's eyes were large and dark in the orange fire light, and the tears flowed freely from them. The pain was evident in the heavily creased face, but the cerulean eyes were haunted and distant. Luinaur made no indication that he'd even heard Thalgaladh yell for him. 

One last ineffective tug and the General whispered, "Forgive me, little one," before launching a well aimed fist at Luinaur's temple. The young elf collapsed into the ashy remains littering the floor. 

Thalgaladh dropped the robe and stomped out the flame before turning back to the fallen elf. He knelt beside the young warrior and slid two fingers to his throat, checking for a pulse. Luinaur's heart pounded beneath his fingers, urged by the adrenaline still racing through his body. Thalgaladh could sympathize. His own heart beat no slower. He took a deep breath to calm himself before hiking the injured youth into his arms. He heard the door behind him creak open as he rose up, and turned to meet the eyes of his uninjured king. 

Thranduil's brow furrowed in confusion at the sights before him. The hallway stood empty and charred, save for Thalgaladh. His eyes drifted to the burden that his General bore and widened. "What has happened?"

"He is injured, my lord."

Thranduil flashed the General an irritated glance. "I can see that." He waved the elf into his chambers. "What has happened? And where are all the serpents?"

Thalgaladh breezed into the chambers and lay Luinaur down. Without looking up from the burned and bleeding elf, he said, "We burned them."

The King cast one more confused glance into the hall before joining the General at the fallen elf's side. "Luinaur." Thranduil murmured, laying a hand over the unconscious elf's brow. The makeshift bandage around the elf's head was soaked with blood, his face sooty and charred, platinum hair singed and matted with blood and ash. 

Meanwhile, Thalgaladh had busied himself with examining the burns that covered Luinaur's hands. They were brutal red, blisters raised and burst each time the flames consumed another layer of flesh. "We need to clean and bandage these while he is unconscious." 

Thranduil had unwound the wrap about the youth's head and winced at the ragged cut that had reopened. He glanced at Luinaur's burned hands and his lips parted on a gasp. "What happened?" The King asked again, eyes demanding an answer. He was unused to having to ask a question more than once, and irritated that on his third attempt, he'd still received no answer.

Weary gray eyes met stubborn blue and Thalgaladh knew that he would have to yield to the King. "I know not. He seemed to go mad, grasped the burning robe and refused to let it go."

"He inflicted these injuries on himself?" The horror and shock radiated off Thranduil. _What madness would drive him to such an act? _

Though he thought it, the king did not express the sentiment. In truth, he knew what had possessed the elf, and the reality of the situation frightened him. The Shadow had not only possessed their home, but their minds as well. What would they do now?

"Yes." The General replied, taking the opportunity to survey the King's condition. "Are you well, my lord?"

Thranduil hiked a sarcastic eyebrow at his General before offering an assuring smile. "Yes, my friend. Thank you."

Thalgaladh nodded once, scanning the room. "Where is the Queen?"

  
Thranduil's eyes widened at the question. In all the commotion he'd completely forgotten about his wife. Shame turned his ears a vivid pink and he stood, intent on remedying his error. The ground shifted beneath him, and for the first time in his long millennia, Thranduil lost his footing. 

He fell in an undignified heap onto the floor, landing with a loud, "Mmph." Vivid pink burned vibrant red and Thranduil threw a cautious look at Thalgaladh. As he'd suspected, the General wore a smirk that perfectly matched the mischievous look in his gray eyes. Thranduil narrowed his eyes in challenge and saw the glint brighten, the smirk broaden. Thranduil knew that the General was battling a near overwhelming urge to laugh uproariously, just as he knew that the General would remain silent. 

Sometimes it was good to be king.

Thranduil rose with a grace that could only denote overcompensation. Thalgaladh snickered softly, but by the time Thranduil had turned a ferocious glare on him the General had already schooled his features into a calm mask, and redirected his attention to the fallen elf. Concern welled up in the king and he felt an immediate and crushing guilt for worrying over petty trifles such as bruised dignity in the midst of such tragic events. 

Halfway through Thranduil's first step to the closet the ground shifted with new violence. "What…?" The abrupt drop of the floor threw the king from his feet again, this time sending him slamming onto his side, effectively knocking the question from his lips. His shoulder flared at the contact and the king paused for two deep breaths before rolling onto his knees. The ground bucked beneath him, and Thranduil abandoned his efforts to regain his footing. His arm tingled unpleasantly and he clutched it at the elbow, drawing it tighter to his body. The closet was only a few paces away, but the expanse of floor between him and it buckled and rolled, opening deep crevices. 

"Linnaloth." Thranduil called futilely into the maelstrom. Stones fractured and rained down from the ceiling, throwing dust and noise into the air. The king could just make out his own shout in the echoing din of his chambers. Casting dignity aside and shoving pain deep down, Thranduil crawled on hands and knees toward the closet that housed his wife.

Thalgaladh clasped Luinaur, holding and shielding the injured elf from the violent quaking. He heard the king call out to his wife, and tore his eyes from the pale and bleeding elf in his arms to survey the room. The earth liquefied, rolling like waves on the sea, and Thranduil was caught in their midst. The king moved with more grace than Thalgaladh would have believed possible on hand and knee, but still he struggled to remain upright. The quaking had escalated in brutality enough to shake objects from their shelves, furniture from its position and stones from the ceiling and walls. The General drew his young charge closer, hugging him tight to his chest. He felt Luinaur's groan vibrate against his sternum, and whispered comforting words into a pointed ear. Though an accomplished warrior in his own right, Luinaur seemed little more than an injured child to the elder elf; a child so wan and sickly and Thalgaladh feared that another serious injury might just send him to Mandos. 

A loud crash and desolate cry rattled the ancient elf to his core. A quick peek from under the silver curtain of his hair stole his breath. The General tightened his hold on Luinaur, praying for the end of the earthquake, his mind stuttered in rhythm with his heart, both crying out in denial.


	7. In The Aftermath

Note: In the last chapter Thranduil thinks, "Sometimes it was good to be king." I meant to note at the end of that chapter the reference to the ever brilliant Mel Brooks in one of his funniest movies, _History of the World Part I. _I couldn't resist making the reference as it seemed perfectly fitting when Thranduil fell flat on his butt. 

Disclaimer: I do not own Middle Earth or the inhabitants therein, and am making no money from the weaving of this tale. Should you have any doubts about either of those facts, I would gladly show you my bank statements to prove that I am, indeed, flat broke.

-7-

In the Aftermath

Verenaur rubbed absently at his darkening bruises, panting from the exertion of the past few moments. Uncertain eyes fixed on Legolas's unconscious form, narrowing with concern and trepidation. Under pain of death, Verenaur could not explain what had just transpired. 

"Did you see that?" Something in Legolas's tone nagged at Verenaur and he peered into the darkness seeking the source of the prince's concern. He'd seen nothing, yet he could not shake the cold dread that pooled low in his belly, nor the icy chill that licked his spine. The moments stretched out for years in the dark void before he heard the scraping overhead.

Too late.

The prince vanished from his side and Verenaur spent several long moments groping in the complete blackness for any sign of Legolas. Several interminable moments passed before a wheezing breath snagged his attention. Unwilling to chance missing his friend, Verenaur dropped to his hands and knees on the stone floor and crawled in the direction of the sound.

The crawl through the darkness was slow and painstaking, and Verenaur thought he might go mad. He maintained his stoic silence with great effort, biting down on his tongue until he detected the tell-tale warm metallic taste on the back of his tongue. He longed to call out to his friend, to assure himself of the prince's safety, but warrior instinct restrained him. He swept his hand out before him, running calloused fingertips over cold stone for any sign of his missing prince.

A heavy thud to his left and Verenaur stretched out with searching fingers, brushing against the plush of elvish leggings. The sensation was gone before his mind had processed the discovery, and Verenaur was left groping in the darkness again. 

He followed the rustle of flesh and clothing over the stone, rising from his crouch in hopes of a better vantage point. Squinting into the darkness, heart thudding erratically, Verenaur sniffled near silent breaths in an effort to quell his traitorous body. A slight breeze licked his cheek and he fought the urge to squirm at its touch. His eyes swung to and fro in a wide arc, taking in every inch of darkness before him.

There!

The stony wall before him was an empty void almost hiding the form that leaned heavily against it. Verenaur stepped forward with more caution than he really believed necessary until he stood toe to toe with Legolas. Heaving a relieved sigh, Verenaur leaned in to ask the prince what had happened, only to be boxed about his ears.

The change of pressure in his ears coupled with the strength behind the blows robbed the elf of his balance. He didn't realize he'd fallen until the hard ground pounded and bruised his sore knees. His ears rang a constant sour note while the world spun crazily around him. He felt the pain tears catch on his eyelashes on their journey to the ground, and then a sharp pain between his shoulder blades sent his whole body down the same road. He crashed into the stony floor, chin taking the brunt of the fall. 

Blood filled his mouth and stars his vision. Verenaur gasped a breath through his now bruised lips that was promptly driven from him by a harsh kick in his ribs. Curling up on himself to prevent more damage to his already injured body, the elf wiggled his way onto his knees.

"Cease, Legolas. Peace, mellon nin." He gasped, fingers clutching for handholds by which to aid his ascent. He gained a solid grip on Legolas's calf only to find his friend stepping out of his reach. He looked up at the towering figure before him finding him far more discernible through the darkness, almost as though a shroud of shadow had been lifted from them. The prince's brow was folded on itself in deep concentration, and blue eyes seemed to stare straight through him. 

"Legolas?"

Predatorily he stepped, fingers twitching and eyes blank, and Verenaur could not help but back away from his life long friend. Summoning all his strength and resolve, the warrior pushed onto his feet to meet Legolas. The room spun like a maiden's skirt during a dance, ears ringing out that constant flat tone. The prince was still coming and Verenaur reached out and grasped him, holding him at arm's length with as much strength as he could muster.

"Legolas." He tried again, noting his friend's fresh injuries. Blood trickled from punctures in the pale flesh, and Verenaur touched one with a tentative fingertip. "Ai, what did this to you?"

No answer was forthcoming, but Legolas's eyes widened and he recoiled, trying to tear himself from Verenaur's strong grip. The prince punched Verenaur in his left eye at almost the exact same moment he delivered a fierce kick to his right shin. The twin blows stunned the elf, but no more, and he redoubled his efforts at holding onto his mad friend.

Legolas snarled at him and lunged forward, throwing Verenaur off kilter. The lapse was momentary, but it was more than enough for the feral prince. Long fingers wrapped around his neck and squeezed with all the strength that hundreds of years of archery imparted. The pain was extraordinary, as were the colors that appeared behind his eyes. Verenaur's grip on both consciousness and his friend faltered, and he felt the hands loosen and then retighten, as if Legolas were wringing water from a garment rather than the life from his friend.

With coherency sapped from Verenaur's mind, instinct took command of the body sending his right fist crashing into the side of Legolas's head. No quarter was given as his left fist caught the prince flush upon his sharp cheekbone, splitting the old wound open to pour fresh blood. Verenaur caught Legolas in a mighty bear hug, pinning the strong arms down and locking both hands behind the prince's back. He murmured a litany of platitudes, hoping to soothe his enraged and senseless friend. Legolas only moaned and wriggled in his arms leaving Verenaur panting against a bleeding neck.

The scream that erupted from the prince was born of misery, and came from the very depths of Legolas's soul. The sound was the cry of a wounded animal caught in a hunter's snare, and it raised goose bumps all along Verenaur's body. The wail broke on a sob and Verenaur leaned back to stare into the vacant and bereft eyes of his dearest friend.

"Forgive me, my prince." He whispered into Legolas's ear before knocking him unconscious with a sharp blow to the head.

Legolas went limp in his shaking arms, and Verenaur almost lost his hold on his friend. His whole body was shaking like an overdrawn bow, and the warrior was not certain that it wouldn't snap in half at any moment. The muscles in his back balled up and his lungs still burned in his bruised chest. Summoning more strength than should have been necessary, Verenaur readjusted his hold on Legolas and gingerly lowered him to the ground.

He wanted to examine his friend, to try and revive him or at least bring him to someone who might understand what had happened here, but he was too exhausted at the moment to do so. Without alternative, Verenaur plopped down before Legolas's unconscious form and simply breathed and watched, watched and breathed for several minutes.

When the ground jerked from beneath him, Verenaur did little more than roll his eyes. The floor shifted, opening a small crevice in the corridor, and the elf could only just muster the energy to care. Dust showered down on him that he sputtered and wiped from his face. 

He was unimpressed.

Trembling evolved into rumbling which quickly morphed into churning. The floor liquefied and exploded beneath him, half tearing in one direction while the other sank. Dust showers turned into a hail of stone and Verenaur drew Legolas close to shield him. The prince groaned, mumbled something vague,

/Burzum/

and shifted in the tight embrace.

The earthquake lasted mere moments, but when the roiling ceased the entire landscape of their corridor was foreign. The floor had been fashioned in the likeness of stairs, descending sharply into a deep void. Jagged stalactites took the place of the once smooth ceiling. What had once been a corridor appeared a broken smile of some dark demon, fangs poised to devour its unconscious prey. Verenaur knew that he and the prince had to move from their present locale with the same conviction that told him said motion was impossible. He had no strength left to carry the prince.

Time ticked away with the drumming of his heart and the calming of his body. The adrenaline fired muscle tremors ceased, taking with them the final bits of strength. Verenaur was well and truly exhausted, longing only to curl into a fetal ball and slip into reverie. 

Teal eyes glazed and blinked. _Wake up! _He shouted at himself, and Verenaur shuttered before shifting onto his knees to lean over his friend. His attention was flittering away from him and he mentally slapped himself. _Focus._

"Legolas?" Verenaur murmured, his voice a light caress. 

Nothing.

"Legolas?" He tried again, this time his voice was stronger. 

Nothing.

Out of patience, the elf grasped the prince and shook him this time shouting his name.

"LEGOLAS! Wake up, we must go!"

Legolas's eyes fluttered and then focused, his whole body taut. Verenaur braced himself for the prince's reaction. Should he attack again, the other elf would have no choice but to knock him out (if he could) and leave him behind to seek help. His heart shriveled at the thought. 

Legolas rubbed his head once before pulling himself into a sitting position. "What happened? Where are we?" Confusion tinged blue eyes scanned the unfamiliar terrain.

"Legolas?" Verenaur questioned hopefully, pulling himself to his feet without waiting for affirmation. "Come. We must go."

Legolas allowed himself to be pulled upright, eyes sweeping the broken edifice of the corridor before finally lighting on Verenaur's bruised, hopeful face. Dozens of questions fluttered through the prince's mind like butterflies through a meadow. His lips opened to ask a question only to find that they could not speak what his brain had not formed. Like water through a sieve they poured, only the faintest traces left behind to taunt him with his own inadequacy.

Legolas's face folded on itself, wrinkling the fair features in a clear display of confusion. The creases only folded tighter, branching around his eyes and mouth. Verenaur eyed his friend, balling his right hand in a tight fist while grazing the prince's arm with the gentle fingers of his left. Legolas glanced at the hand resting on his arm and then back into Verenaur's eyes.

"Did it attack you too? What happened?" 

__

Did what attack me? Verenaur's mind shouted. He thought he might drown in his curiosity, so deep and vast as it was. And before the question could tumble from his loose tongue, a more sobering question flitted through his mind. _Should I tell him? Should I tell that it was he that attacked me. _Loyalty to the prince urged him to divulge all he knew, and perhaps together they could conjure some answer to the ever growing mystery. Yet his heart told him that he should wait. They knew too little about what had occurred. What was, in fact, occurring right now. Perhaps telling Legolas that he'd been as a creature possessed would reassert the shadow's hold over the prince's mind. Speaking of such evils was never a good idea when so engulfed in darkness. Nay, he would say naught until he'd taken counsel with one who better understood their predicament. They needed to speak with the king. 

"In truth, I know not." Gentle fingers probed at the bruised, bleeding skin of the prince's neck. Legolas winced, but did not pull away. "We must go. We need to speak to the king about what has happened here." _And I must find my brother,_ he added wordlessly. 

The horrified look that captured Legolas's features had Verenaur back pedaling for fear of another attack. Fingers that had nearly choked the life from him now clung to his arms with bruising intensity. Verenaur had no idea what had passed through the prince's head, but he could see faint ripples reflected in the blue eyes. "We must hurry."

The fingers vanished, leaving a dull ache in the aftermath. 

--------------------------

Thalgaladh found that pulverized rock weighed as heavily on his lungs as the stones themselves did on his back. Lifting his head proved more of a challenge than it ought have and his semi-alert brain scanned his body for possible injuries. He ached for a certainty but found nothing grievous about the pain. _Probably a combined effect of all the evening's adventures. _Gray eyes opened only to tear up and slam shut. 

__

Damn dust.

"My lord?" His voice was ragged and broken as he spoke, and he choked on the dust that clung to his pallet. The taste of wet rock and dirt lingered on the back of his tongue, and Thalgaladh spat and choked for a brief eternity. At the conclusion of the fit he wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, sweeping tears and dust away and calling out for the king again. When his inquiry garnered no response a cold coil of panic wound through him. He remembered the falling rocks raining around the king and could not help but fear the worst. "My lord, are you well?" A small whimper from the body beneath him motivated him enough to try and peel open his eyes again. 

Thankfully Luinaur was no worse for the wear, which was not to say he was well. But he'd not sustained any fresh injuries, nor had the old ones reopened so Thalgaladh dared to believe that the young warrior would be okay. The General lay a calming hand on the elf's brow and whispered a quiet reassurance before rising up and scanning for the king. The air was thick and cloudy, heavily laden with grit and dust that made it painful to breathe. He opened his mouth to speak again only to burst into another violent coughing fit. 

"Thalgaladh, please help me." The king's voice was steady and desperate, but contained no hint of pain.

Navigating through the dust and debris proved easier than he'd anticipated, and a few seconds of staggering brought him to the King's side. Thranduil stood before a great pile of rock, blue eyes fixed on it as intently as his fingers. "Are you injured?" Thalgaladh asked, voice soft and relieved. The question was an unnecessary formality, for he could plainly see that the king was well. 

Thranduil shook his head once. "No." The reply lacked its usual sarcastic standoffishness, and Thalgaladh suddenly found himself worrying. A feeling which turned to dread when the king said, "Please help me. Linnaloth is in the closet and the ceiling has collapsed." Thranduil was trying to maintain his composure, refusing to allow despair to take hold and choke all rational thought from him. But he found with each passing moment his hold on himself slipping away. He tugged ferociously at a stone and heard the pile groan in protest.

Thalgaladh's eyes widened at the sound and he lay a restraining hand across the king's back. "Wait," he ordered. Thranduil's glared resentfully at the General. Thalgaladh ignored him as he lay an ear against the rock pile and closed his eyes, listening to the soft whispers of the stones and what lay beyond. The rocks shifted within, accompanied by a steady shower of gravel. "The pile is unstable." He rapped on the stones with one knuckle and heard the sound echo within. "And hollow." He looked up to see that the stones reached almost to the ceiling. If the pile came down…. "Back away, my lord."

"I will not!" The meekness had vanished in lieu of the king's normal arrogance. "I am going to get my wife out of there."  


Thalgaladh's eye twitched once. _So much like his father, sometimes I just want to punch him. _"Listen to me, Thranduil," he hissed, irritation peaking. Blue eyes widened a touch before narrowing, and Thalgaladh knew he'd better make it good. It was not often that he dispensed with formalities, and even less frequent that he allowed his temper to go unchecked. "It is my duty to protect you and the queen and I plan to carry out that duty. But I need you to back up."

Narrowed eyes squeezed even tighter and Thalgaladh half wondered if the King's eyes were even open anymore. He could feel the rage radiating off his friend and knew that at least part of it was directed at him right now. At any other time, being on the receiving end of the king's wrath might worry him. Right now, Thalgaladh merely arched an eyebrow and awaited whatever reaction Thranduil would hurl at him.

Without easing the magnitude of his glare, Thranduil took two steps back from the pile. He did not appreciate being commanded by anyone, not even one whom he considered a trusted friend. Some rational part of his mind whispered that Thalgaladh was merely carrying out his duties with a loyalty that should be rewarded, not punished. Heaving a great sigh, the king sought to calm his body and mind. He ran trembling fingers through his tangled, dusty hair, and cursed his weakness. He held his hand before him, watching as the fingers quivered and clutched the offending appendage in an effort to still it.

"I cannot lose her," he mumbled the words, not even realizing that he'd spoken them aloud.

In the meantime, Thalgaladh had begun sifting through the pile. He heard the desperation in Thranduil's whispered plea and felt an immediate shame sweep him. His thoughts had been unkind concerning his friend. Well did he know the King's fears about his missing son's fate and now his wife's was equally in question. _Not to mention Legolas. _

Thoughts of the prince caused the General's concentration to drift and he almost brought the whole pile of rubble down atop his head. Thranduil tensed, eyes wide with alarm. Thalgaladh had the decency to look sheepish and the king rolled his eyes at his friend. "Are you certain that I cannot aid you?" Thranduil's voice was an odd mixture of sarcasm and concern and Thalgaladh gritted his teeth. 

Instead of answering the other's petulant question, Thalgaladh easily ascended the pile and dismantled it from the top. The rubble shifted around under his weight, but not enough to unseat the General from his position. Thalgaladh pushed and pulled at the pile, hoping that all the disturbance wouldn't bring the rest of the ceiling down on their heads. He looked down at the tense figure of the king who stood staring as if he could see straight through the rubble to his heart's desire .

It was useless to try and get him to leave and Thalgaladh knew it. Still, as General and consultant to the king it was his duty to offer said king suggestions that were in his best interests. "My lord, perhaps it would be best if you left the room. The structure is unstable."  


Thranduil didn't even acknowledge that he'd spoken, not that the General had expected him to.

Without pausing in his task, Thalgaladh continued, "Perhaps then you would be so kind as to see to our young friend. His injuries still need wrapping."

Thranduil's shoulders slumped and he walked in silence to the young elf. Once again he felt ashamed that he'd ignored the injured warrior in favor of his own troubles. Luinaur looked so small and defeated, burned and ruined, and Thranduil's heart ached. His mind skittered to his sons and their unknown fate and he banished the thought from his mind. Such a trail of thought was far too dangerous and self-indulgent to follow at this time, and to do so would only lead to despair. Banishing his guilt and woes, the king stooped down beside the injured elf and took his burned digits into his own sword roughed hands. Luinaur whimpered and the King whispered, "I am sorry, little one. I shall endeavor to be more careful." A quick glance around the room and Thranduil located his wife's overturned vanity. With effortless grace he rose and approached it. Righting it, he rifled through the drawers to come up with soft linen kerchiefs and a salve she used when the sun would pinken her fair skin. Neither was exactly appropriate for treating the injuries that the fallen elf had endured, but they would suffice for now.

Three paces brought him back to Luinaur, where he knelt again and examined the burns. He was no healer, for a certainty, but he was not ignorant either. The burns on the elf's hands were severe and without proper treatment would become infected. Thranduil swore softly as he coated his fingertips with the balm and gently dabbed and rubbed at Luinaur's blistered hands. The elf whimpered and flinched, blue green eyes roving beneath fluttering eyelids. "Easy little one," the king murmured, hoping the soft words would ease the elf somewhat. The words had the opposite effect. The burned elf's whinnying swelled into a raw shout startling him conscious again. Luinaur's bleary eyes snapped open and swept the room before landing on the king.

Confused was too understated and coherent a word to describe Luinaur's mindset. The agony that wracked his body was inescapable, and he groaned and writhed. Something pressed down on his chest, something holding him still. He trembled beneath the tiny weight, his body fighting to cope with the pain as his mind fought for memory. Flashes of peeling skin and dancing flames haunted him and he cried out in an effort to examine the burns. Someone was speaking to him, whispering in his ear incomprehensible babble as the weight upon him increased. Dilated, teary eyes sought his tormentor, saw the shadowy outline. His mind could not process much beyond the agony of his injuries, and so the bleary figure before him remained enigmatic. Something nagged at him and he knew, even through the haze of pain, that he should know the figure before him. Determined, he bent all his thought into placing a name to the face. Realization, when it came, was often a harsh acquaintance. One word flitted about his groggy mind as he took in his situation: disgrace. "M-My king?" The voice was raw and gravelly, choked with pain. Luinaur did not know what had happened or how he'd ended up…wherever he was, but he knew that lying on one's back was not an appropriate manner in which to greet one's king. He tried pulling himself upright, intent on kneeling before King Thranduil as was fitting, but was waylaid by the firm hand planted smack in the middle of his chest. 

"Lay still, Luinaur." Thranduil commanded "You are injured," he said as he wrapped the first burned hand in the soft linen and tied it off. 

"What happened?" was all he managed to get out. His throat was dry, and the air hard to breathe. His entire body throbbed with a merciless abandon, and the room spun nauseatingly around him. Sealing his eyes as tight as he could manage, Luinaur fought his body's overwhelming urge to vomit. Such an act was humiliating by any standards. To do so before (or even worse, on) his King was unthinkable.

"I was rather hoping that you could tell me." Thranduil remarked, carefully smoothing the salve over the burns on the other hand. 

"I don't understand. The last thing I remember…" _Fire. Death. All your fault. _The fair and bruised face tightened into a grimace, and Thranduil slowed his movements. With more care than anyone would have thought him capable, King Thranduil wrapped the hand from forearm to fingertip before laying it across the fallen elf's chest.

"The last thing you remember…?" He prompted, unwrapping the bandage about the elf's head to get a better look at the scalp wound.

__

They will all fall tonight because of your weakness. Even now does your friend lie in shadow. "Legolas," he whispered dejectedly.

Thranduil stiffened. "What of Legolas?" His voice betrayed nothing as he placed a clean linen over the wound and rewrapped it.

"My fault." Luinaur murmured. "All my fault. They're all going to die and it's my fault."

Thranduil fought down his impatience, gritted his teeth against the growing shadow in his heart and said, "Who is going to die? Of what do you speak?"

"I killed them. I burned them." The elf was sobbing now, making no sense, and Thranduil relaxed a bit. It was obvious Luinaur was delirious. No doubt a result of the combined efforts of the head wound, burns and exhaustion. Perhaps the young elf had merely called out to his son, believing it was Legolas that now tended him rather than his father. 

"You did not kill anyone," the king assured. 

"We left him. How could we leave him?" He shifted and groaned. 

Again Thranduil did not know of what or whom Luinaur spoke, and he decided that interrogating him in this state would be too cruel. "Do not worry, little one. Everything will be well."  


"They're dead!" Luinaur shouted, sealed eyes leaking tears, voice as raw as his heart. Thranduil wiped the traitorous tear away with the tip of his thumb. "They are all dead. All burnt and I killed them. " Luinaur continued his bereft litany as the king covered the prone form with a blanket.

Thranduil watched the youth shake beneath the blanket, weeping in his delirium. He longed to offer some comfort, to explain that the only one that Luinaur had harmed was himself. But Luinaur was in no state for conversations or lectures so the king simply lay his palm across the freshly bandaged forehead and hummed.

"My lord." 

Thalgaladh's voice shocked the king, so absorbed had he been in caring for the injured warrior. "Too late," Luinaur whispered before drifting away. The king panicked when the elf went still, pressing urgent fingers to his throat. The pulse beat slow and steady, indicating that Luinaur had merely faded into unconsciousness. _A small mercy_, the king thought, as he turned toward the General. When Thranduil looked up he found the pile of rubble significantly decreased and the closet door ajar. Immediately, he was across the room , wrenching open the heavy wooden door.

The whole of the contents of the closet lay on the floor, but thankfully the ceiling had remained in tact. The dread in his heart deflated a bit as Thranduil dug through the piles of fine clothes in search of his wife. His fingers closed on something cold and metallic, and Thranduil liberated it from beneath the pile. Small reflections glinted off the jeweled handle and the king handed the dagger off to Thalgaladh without a second look. 

Thalgaladh eyed the pile on the closet floor before directing his attention to the dagger in his hands. The blade was sharp and cool, stained and sticky. The General swallowed down his anxiety before running a dusty forefinger over the stain.

Blood.

"My lord?"

Thranduil ignored him, growing more and more agitated as he tossed through the closet. He was near frantic when he reached the back, eyes burning, body trembling and head shaking in denial. Roughly he grabbed a dress and tossed it, fingers brushing something warm and soft. He let out a soft exclamation before stooping down and gathering Linnaloth into his arms.

"Linna" he whispered, shaking and hoisting her limp form up. She made no response, but she was warm, breathing and in his arms so Thranduil felt his anxiety leave him. He stepped back through the closet, allowing Thalgaladh to aid him only when he reached the rubble and needed to ascend it and carry his wife.

They lay her down, each elf conducting their own cursory exam when Thalgaladh remarked, "She does not appear injured." Thranduil couldn't argue the point, and so worry began creeping into his bones again. If she was not injured, why was she unconscious? She hadn't stirred at all since he'd found her. And despite her lack of injuries, she still looked wan, her skin not only lacking its usual luster but assuming a gray tinge. Thalgaladh lifted a fragile wrist into his hand to feel the pulse only to find his fingers sticky. He turned the wrist over and gasped. "Thranduil!"  


The king jerked and abandoned his examination for hidden injuries on his wife's head. His eyes lighted on Thalgaladh's before shifting downward to see the gouge in the soft flesh of the queen's wrist. The wound was no longer bleeding, but looking upon it still made the king feel ill. 

"What is happening here?" Thranduil questioned, though he knew the answer quite well. The encroaching darkness had finally engulfed them and was determined to lay waste to the Elves of Greenwood.

Thalgaladh did not respond for a moment, too intent on the mumblings of the injured warrior beside him. Finally he looked at his king, head still bent low over his wife, and said, "there is much I must tell you, my king. All has gone awry."

Thranduil groaned and met the General's eyes expectantly. An odd mixture of confusion, worry and fear tainted the gray eyes and the king felt his own anxieties edge up a notch.

So much was happening with no reprieve! Thranduil cradled his wife in his lap, fingers fidgeting idly with the soft linen wrap tied around the scored wrist while Thalgaladh listed through the evening's happenings. 

"This is madness!" Thranduil declared midway through the tale, his wife's limp weight the only thing preventing him from resuming his restless pacing. Rustling in in the corridor beyond his chamber drew the attention of the two seasoned warriors. Thranduil shifted Linnaloth's head to rest on the floor and quickly rose to find Thalgaladh hovering before him. The king stepped forward, his lips bare inches from his friend's ear as he whispered, "What do you think, old friend?"

The general shook his head in reply and stepped forward, pressing his back against the wall just beside the gaping doorway and clutching the jeweled dagger in his hand. Thranduil scanned his now overturned chambers for his sword, cursing himself for releasing it. A true warrior would not have released his sword, especially not in such chaos as this night wrought. His gaze landed on the hilt a breath before his fingers clasped it, and the king assumed his position across from his friend.

The shuffle grew closer; fingers clenched tighter. A shadow filled the doorway and slid across the floor before enfolding one of Luinaur's burned hands in its midst. Thranduil's eyes narrowed along with all thoughts. The muscles in his shoulders and arms tensed as he brought the heavy sword to bear, wrists tensing in anticipation. Like a bow drawn taut he paused, power held in check just barely as his muscles vibrated. He was potential energy undiluted, stillness belying the power building in his bunched muscles. And as the shadow slid further, spreading over the fallen warriors chest like ink spilt upon parchment, Thranduil swung the sword with all his skill and might, fully prepared to cleave the intruder in twain.

He heard Thalgaladh's abbreviated, "No!" as he swung, but the blade whistled through the air heedless of all cries and cares. Unable to recall or check the blow, the King could only brace himself.


	8. Mae Govannen

Disclaimer: Not mine. I'm poor. 

-8-

Mae Govannen

It's head throbbed, ached with a ferocity that it found most comforting. Bony fingers lifted to gingerly land on the gushing fount that had been its nose. Had it been other than it was it might have acknowledged that said nose was broken. But it knew nothing of noses; knew nothing of anything apart from pain.

A long, cold tongue wound around gray lips catching copious amounts of free flowing blood only to draw back inside to run over teeth. The viscous fluid was bitter and unsatisfying, but irresistible none the less. A finger chased the tongue into its hiding place eliciting a rumble from a parched throat. A soft, wet pop resounded before another digit disappeared between foul lips. 

It took each in turn, milking every sweet drop of red blood from beneath razor nails before both hands closed around its nose and shifted. Bones crunched, cartilage gave way with a wet snap, and even more blood poured forth into cupped hands. A low grunt accompanied the shift, which for all its drama, proved much easier than the wounded beast would have imagined, had imagining been a possibility. 

Gray lips parted over blood darkened teeth as the creature resumed its crawl. Something drew it forth, calling it, whispering incomprehensible words that it felt as a liquefying tingle low in its gut and a rattling tremor in its bones. Obeying with no concept of why it might do such a thing, the creature moved towards an unknown goal. Earth shifted around it sending enormous rocks crashing to the floor, opening fissures where before there had only been ground. The creature did not alter its course nor acknowledge the crumbling mountain. Naught but a queer sense of comprehension 

/empathy/

filled the evil being's head. An odd burning filled its chest, and it felt

/loss/

confused. It paused to ponder a crack where the ground had torn in half, each piece moving feet in the opposite direction until all that remained was a ruined pile of rubble, the sight proving remarkably familiar to a creature that had no memory. A slight head tilt, a slow drip caught by a snaking tongue and all else faded. And there was only hunger.

--------------------------

Legolas was a blur through the ruined corridors of Emyn Duir, jumping fissures and scaling hills wherever they appeared. Every molecule of his body cried out to find his parents, to assure himself of their safety. Something was loose in their home, some shadowy assassin. What if it had reached them? The prince dug deeper through his reserves of strength to press onward. Long moments passed before Verenaur caught up to him and the prince could feel the other elf's exasperated breath on the back of his neck. Legolas could feel the concerned confusion radiate off his companion, yet Verenaur did not speak. Together they turned and wove through the twisted labyrinth, tracing the unfamiliar terrain to the King and Queen's chambers. 

The whole of the keep was upside down and Legolas feared for his brethren. Though he had not witnessed the earthquake, it had obviously been quite powerful. What if someone had been buried beneath the rubble? The thought spiked through his heart, dragging with it the obvious counterpart: should he really be seeking out his father instead of finding some way to aid his people?

The prince skidded to a sudden halt causing Verenaur to crash into him. Both elves tumbled to the ground at the impact in a tangle of arms and legs. Legolas lay flush on his back, breathing labored from the sharp impact to his chest, while Verenaur lay face down beside him, grumbling something profane into the dusty rubble.

Verenaur's head swung up quickly, glaring eyes pinning Legolas instantly. Had they been armed, Legolas would have sworn that his friend might have maimed him just then. "Why did you do that?" Verenaur inquired, tone icy and serious and matching his eyes perfectly. 

Legolas could not control the giggle that bubbled out of him, and Verenaur's eyes grew roundly incredulous. This only added to the hilarity of the situation for the prince, and he snorted softly as he giggled over the ridiculous situations in which he continued to find himself. 

Verenaur was annoyed. He really was! And he couldn't be sure, but he thought that his right eye might have developed a bit of a twitch, which was only irritating him further. He could feel a smile warring for occupation of his lips and he absolutely refused to allow its victory. He was sick of the floor! He did not want to repeatedly fall onto it. And the fact that Legolas was laying there giggling and veritably glowing with mirth aggravated him most of all. How was he to remain angry when his friend's spirits were so light? For weeks Legolas had been cold and distant, almost aloof, stewing in his sadness and worry. 

He felt his anger evaporate and sighed in resignation, the smile he'd been battling finally stake a claim to his lips. "What, pray tell, is so funny?"

"What a pair we make," he commented softly, before saying. "What would our fathers say if they knew how much time we've spent rolling on the floor?" 

Verenaur untangled himself from his friend and pushed up onto his knees. "Let us both be grateful that they will never know." He fixed Legolas with a fierce glare.

The prince chuckled merrily for a moment before sobering. "Do you believe we follow the best path?"

Verenaur regained his feet and brushed at his clothes, kicking up a cloud of dust that made the warrior choke. Legolas laughed at his friend as he stood, but silenced himself at the baleful glare Verenaur tossed at him. 

The prince's bruised face was a giant lopsided smirk, and Verenaur found himself considering whether he should sneer or smirk back. He settled on neither, instead responding to his friend's odd inquiry. "I do not understand what you mean."

"This night is dark and I know nothing of what has befallen our people. Should we not offer our aid to those who might be trapped? Or injured? Is it wise to seek out my father when others might benefit from my aid?"

Verenaur pondered the question. He understood his friend's fears for he shared them. And he respected them as well. Legolas had always been a kindred spirit, a friend to his people rather than their ruler. As the younger of Thranduil's sons, he lacked all the burdens of leadership, and therefore was blissfully bereft of that aloofness that so often marked royalty. And while this lack was probably one of Legolas's most endearing quality, at this moment it was also his greatest hindrance. For while the prince might serve to aid a few of his people by literally digging them from beneath the rubble, he might better serve all of them by providing a source of stability and leadership in a crisis. But how could he convey such a lofty notion when he only half believed it himself? 

Not to mention that the prince had recently suffered some undetermined fit and may, in fact, be dangerous.

"Legolas, I understand what you say, but I feel that we must speak with the King. We must understand what happens else we cannot fight it." His tone was earnest, his eyes steady. 

"But…" the prince protested.

"Nay!" Verenaur interrupted. "Perhaps the king even now knows the answer to the mystery? Or perhaps we hold the final piece that will solve this puzzle and reveal the intentions of the encroaching shadow? We do not know, and that is, in fact, the point. Speaking with your father is the only course we can take right now."

Legolas sighed. "Of course you are right, my friend." His eyes stared off wistfully. "But my heart still aches."

Grief shadowed the bright blue of the prince's eyes and Verenaur felt his own heart twist at the sight. Too often recently had the prince bore such sadness. Day after day did he dull further, until the shine had faded from his skin, the luster from his hair and the luminescence from his spirit. Luinaur had asked him several times over the past weeks why the prince seemed so diminished. Verenaur hadn't the heart to speak it aloud, though he was certain he knew. Belegalad. Without even thinking the thought, he wondered how Legolas would ever survive the loss. Such depth of sorrow in one so young was an ill omen, for a certainty. 

"Let us speak no more on this." Legolas said, shaking his head as if to rattle away the worry. He moved steadily down the pathway, sniffing at the air. "Do you smell something?"

The elf's eyes were fixed on the terrain as he mourned his brief vision. So transfixed was he that he walked directly into the prince for the second time in mere minutes.

Legolas grasped his friend's elbows in his hands, holding the elf upright should he lose his balance. The prince tilted his head at his friend. Kind blue eyes, tinted ever so slightly with sadness, assessed him and Verenaur swallowed a rising lump. 

He must not think such dark thoughts. The shadow only fed them.

The moment passed unacknowledged and Legolas released his friend and turned once more to their path. "What foul odor lingers on the air?"

Verenaur, who walked a half step behind the prince, wrinkled his nose distastefully at the smell. "I know not. But it grows stronger that way," he admitted, gesturing toward the path ahead. 

Legolas's body tensed with each hurried step, and a great weight settled on his belly. He could not identify the origin of the offensive odor, but knew as surely as his own name that it was a product of some sort of fire. Fear curled its way through his stomach and he quickened his pace. 

A loud groan echoed through the cave freezing both elves in their tracks. Legolas glanced back at Verenaur, eyes wrinkled with confusion. Verenaur studied the ceiling with the intensity that one might a painting. When he finally met Legolas's eyes, he shrugged and gestured to go on. Legolas cast a suspicious look into the darkness behind them, and an equally assessing glance ahead before inching forward. 

The world vanished with a shuddering roar, the ground evaporating into a cloud of dust. Legolas fell with all gravity's speed, the surprised exclamation stolen from his lungs before he could give it voice. Everything around him a jumble of gray and darkness, dull thuds and sharp pains. Rock crumbled beneath his grasping fingers as he slipped down and down. Wind rushed past him, tugging at his hair and watering his eyes. Loose stones pelted him like hail as he scraped his fingers over the stone beneath them. His feet skidded down the rocky slope, frictionless, useless. 

Until it stopped.

His foot caught on something, ceasing his relentless slide with such abruptness that his momentum nearly carried him backwards into the abyss. Acting on instinct, the elf allowed his knee to buckle, hearing more than feeling the dry pop in his overtaxed joint. He slipped downward again, this time catching the small outcropping between his fingers. 

He hung and panted for several moments, the blood pounding in his ears drowning out all other noise. His breathing slowed and he opened his sealed eyelids. His fingers slipped, calloused pads dragging over the grainy surface just a touch, and his heart kicked up its tempo again. Blood pounded behind his wide eyes in a fast, steady throb, tiny sparks of light and darkness accompanying the matching pain. He wanted to shake his head to clear it, wipe the sweat from his eyes, but he didn't dare any movement apart from the clutching of fingers and the tightening of forearms and biceps. Muscles clenched bending elbows by such slow degrees that the prince would have sworn he'd attempted to bend the joint the wrong way. 

Half way up his fingers slipped again. Legolas stilled, elbows oddly angled, arms and shoulders set to slow burn. A shallow inhalation and deep exhalation were all he could manage. His fingers were cramping and despite all his long years of archery, his arms would not be able to support him in so precarious a position indefinitely. Another breath, this one deep, and Legolas completed the movement, chin finally surmounting the small outcropping. 

He had to move, but was uncertain of how to attempt such a feat. Gravity's incessant pull weighed heavily on his shoulders, and his fingers might never work properly again. His feet dangled beneath him, swaying in a nonexistent breeze, cautiously seeking someplace to rest. He needed some leverage before attempting to shift position, but could find no purchase. In a fit of desperation, the prince yelled for help. "Verenaur!" The silence that greeted his cry chilled him. What had become of his friend? Had his fate carried him down into the pit below? Fear and a tenuous hold kept him from moving too much and the prince felt a sense of hopeless defeat settle upon him. How could he get back up? And even if he did, where would he go? 

A sharp shake of head was the only denial he could muster. He could not despair! He could not submit! He was a prince of Greenwood, son of Thranduil, grandson of Oropher. To give up now would be to disgrace his lineage. Sweat stung his eyes and one fine golden hair lay caught in the trap of his eyelashes. His eye twitched its dissatisfaction at the nuisance and he huffed to blow the offending hair from his face. The hair remained firmly tangled in his lashes, his perspiration forming some sort of adhesive that held the golden nightmare in place. Legolas growled. His fingers were growing weak and slippery from their continued exertion, and he wasn't certain but he thought they might have just slid over the rock again. Steadying his thrashing body, the prince laid his chin onto the rock before him and tightened the already overwrought digits of his right hand. With more effort than he would ever admit, the prince relinquished the grip of his left hand and pushed his arm further onto the outcropping, trying to keep his elbow anchored. When the movement was completed and he was certain that he would not slide from the shelf, he pressed his left elbow down and pulled upward with the other arm. The muscles burned in his neck, shoulders and arms. He ignored them. The pain was nothing to him as he dragged first his chest, then his knees over the rocky ledge.

The feeling of solid ground beneath him again was surreal, and Legolas refused to trust it. He pressed his back tight to the wall and panted for a few moments. His arms were knotting up, and his neck would not turn. A length of time that Legolas did not measure passed before the prince even bothered trying to move again. When he did, it was without much of the natural grace he possessed. His knee ached, as did his heart.

"Verenaur?" He tried again, voice full of the sorrow he refused to acknowledge. He knew the truth. His friend had fallen and had not had the good fortune to catch onto anything on the way down. "No." The denial was whispered and crushed, and for a long moment Legolas debated why he should even bother attempting to ascend from the hellish pit. Verenaur's face danced before him, bruised and concerned, and Legolas contemplated finishing the descent and searching for the other elf. He peered into the darkness, eyes dilated so wide he could practically feel them open, and yet still he saw nothing. Verenaur could lay ten or ten thousand feet below. He shut his eyes and opened his other senses, hoping to discern a sound in the darkness: a voice, a breath, a movement. All he heard was the throb of his own blood and the whistle of his breath. 

With a heavy heart, Legolas began the ascent. Smooth walls with scant handholds made slow work of the climb. Cold stone and pitch blackness were the only witness to his soft but colorful curses. When he finally dragged his panting, sweating, bleeding body over the lip of the gorge he felt the darkness reaching up to engulf him. How he longed for rest! How he wanted to sleep and awaken to find this whole night was a long nightmare. 

Knowing both desires to be unattainable, Legolas dragged himself upright and continued on the scarred path to his parents' room. The journey was slow as each step forward increased his grief by widening the distance between him and his missing friend. His heart ached and his head spun. His back screamed at him with each movement, and his knee throbbed in its swollen glory. And probably most maddening of all, that same golden hair remained tangled in his eyelashes, tickling at his nose and catching on his tongue as it swiped over cracked lips. Too tired to even bother removing it, the prince spat out the fine hair and made the final turn. The whole of the area reeked of burnt flesh and death and Legolas gagged. Yet he saw no sign of fire anywhere. The queerness of the situation made him pause, mulling over possibilities. His mind proved as stiff as the rest of him, too tired to follow a single trail of thought to its most logical conclusion, let alone cope with various possibilities. With a slight shrug of indifference, meant strictly for his own benefit seeing as how he had effectively lost all traces of company for the evening, Legolas stepped with far less caution than appropriate into the threshold of his parents' bed chambers. When his bleary, bloodshot blue eyes met wide gray ones of Thalgaladh, he felt relief wash over him.

The dismayed "No," alerted him to the danger too late for him to do anything. He heard the low whistle of a blade slicing through the air, saw the dim light glint off the metal poised for his throat, and swallowed down the bitter taste clinging to his tongue, eyes sealed in resignation. 

--------------------------

The whistling sword lanced a deadly arc only to clash against and slip down a shorter blade. The friction of metal on metal sent sparks flying as the sword's blade connected with the dagger hilt and continued its slide straight into the soft flesh of Thalgaladh's arm.

For an interminable moment the two elves gaped at each other, Thranduil's blade buried an inch into Thalgaladh's bicep, before each elf released their weapons. The two blades clanged on the floor forgotten as Thranduil bridged the gap to assess the damage he'd wrought.

Thalgaladh gripped the injury with his left hand, blood seeping between white knuckled fingers, breath hissing through clenched teeth. It was not the first time he'd felt the bite of a blade upon his flesh. Nor, he was certain, would it be the last. Even still the pain exploded through him, kicking up white flashes behind his eyes and tilting the world beneath him. His head spun for a moment before he clamped down tighter and breathed around the pain. 

"Let me see it." The king's voice held an urgent edge, and his fingers were prying at the clasped and sturdy digits of his friend.

"'Tis nothing, my King." Thalgalad insisted, refusing to lessen his grip on his injury. 

"Let me see it." He reiterated, tone pitched frantic and pleading. 

Thalgaladh dipped his head, trying to catch the king's worried blue eyes. Thranduil sensed the gaze and lifted his own to meet it. Thalgaladh smiled warmly, as he said, "I am well, Thranduil. Do not worry."

A thin eyebrow arched in question, eyes drifting back to the wound in his friend's arm. The strong brow furrowed and a corner of his lower lip disappeared between straight white teeth. "I am sorry," he whispered, so low the General could just make out the words. The king looked painfully young just then and Thalgaladh felt a strange nostalgia warm his heart. The feeling fled a heartbeat after it appeared and Thalgaladh shifted his gaze to the young elf who stood in shocked horror in the open doorway.

"Father?" The prince's voice was ragged, stretched thin from exhaustion and pain. 

"Legolas!" Little more than breath and anguish as Thranduil drew his battered son in a fierce embrace. The king could feel his son shake in his arms. Or perhaps it was he who was shaking. Either way, the king shushed his son, stroking tangled blonde hair with a mixture of comfort and affection. Such displays of raw emotion were foreign to the Elven king, and indeed most of the Eldar. But the events of the evening coupled with the uncertainties of what was to come forced his grip ever tighter. The reality of what was versus what had nearly been soaked into the king's frazzled mind, and Thranduil could not repress the shudder. Had Thalgaladh not blocked his blow, he'd have decapitated his younger son right in the threshold to his bed chamber.

Legolas's arms closed about the king, and he basked in his father's presence. He was weary beyond his recollection, and knew that the trials had barely begun. So much had happened in the past few hours! Much he couldn't explain, and moreover, wasn't sure he wanted to. Though his father held him for a long moment, the embrace still ended too soon for the prince, and he could only just contain the small frown of disappointment tugging at his lips.

Thranduil held his son at arm's length and looked him over. Legolas looked, for lack of a better word, terrible. His face was bright with fresh bruises and scrapes, clothes ragged and soaked through with blood and sweat. Dark bruises ringed the prince's pale neck, accented by scabbing scratches and fresher puncture wounds. His pale fingers were swollen and shaking, nails and skin stripped raw. He touched his son's seeping wounds and winced. "What has happened?"

How many times had he made that inquiry today? The king felt the heavy mantle of his rule upon him when he realized that the true question was how many more times would he make it? For a moment, Thranduil felt his shoulder's slump beneath the burden before he cast off his despair and focused upon the matters at hand.

Legolas mulled over the events since he'd stepped out into the night to partake of the peace the woods and sky offered. The hail, the rats, the cave, the sensation of eyes always upon him, the shadowy creature that attacked him…the loss of Luinaur and Verenaur. Thoughts clanged against each other, rattling for supremacy. But when the prince opened his mouth to speak, the only words that did not elude him were, "I know not." 

He'd expected irritation, a delicately arched eyebrow and a droll, _'what do you mean you do not know,_' or perhaps a short lecture on why it was always important to be aware of his surroundings. Instead, the king nodded his head sagely and said, "I understand what you mean, my son. This night's happenings are mysterious and lack a satisfactory explanation." Legolas smiled crookedly, the swelling on his face warping his bright smile into a parody of itself. Swallowing down his anger at his youngest child's injuries, Thranduil said, "Are you hurt?"  


Legolas shook his head, the denial only half a lie. "Not overmuch." But his eyes were wet with pain. "I lost them father." 

Thranduil canted his head. Though the words varied, the sentiment was much the same as the one spoken by Luinaur earlier. Who did Legolas lose? Why was he so bereft? Thranduil asked neither question, simply brushed an errant strand of hair from his son's eye.

Legolas crumbled at the gesture, sobbing for long moments into his father's shoulder. He wetted the king's tunic with tears and spit as he cried about the loss of Verenaur, how they'd fallen and he'd abandoned him to languish and die in an abysmal pit. And here he was crying, when he should be searching. Such behavior was shameful! He was a disgrace. Legolas expected his father to cast him off any moment as the pest he'd become; call him weak and pathetic and dismiss him from his arms and home. A prince should not cry like a babe in his father's arms. Legolas straightened, and tried backing away, babbling wet apologies. But the king drew him close, held him fast, and he was too exhausted to protest. He did not wish to protest. He remained in the warm circle of his father's arms until the grief had washed from him with salt and sobs. He sighed softly, sniffled and stepped back, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Burning red from his episode, Legolas tried to affect a casual attitude. 

"And you father? Are you injured?" The prince asked, though it was plain to see that his father was as strong and composed as always. Legolas had no more luck suppressing his bitterness than the pride that swelled at his unflappable father. How could he be the son of so great and noble an elf and still be himself? Could he not have inherited even a modicum of his father's prowess. "What of mother?" Legolas said, his eyes scanning the room before landing on the fallen forms of his friend and his mother. His breath left him in a rush as he ran to his mother's side. Her eyes roved restlessly beneath closed lids and Legolas looked up at his approaching father with despair. "What's wrong with her?"

The king crouched beside his wife and tilted his head in assessment. In truth, she looked better. The color had returned to her face and lips, and she had shifted her position. "I am uncertain. There is no injury that I could find. She was in the closet when the earth tilted. She may have bumped her head." His tone lacked conviction and he knew it, but could not manage to remedy it no matter the effort he exerted. 

"Yet you do not believe this is so," Legolas observed.

Thranduil felt weary beyond his years, and irritated at his ignorance. Fighting hard to repress that irritation, the Elvenking responded with cold honesty. "Nay. I do not think so. But she is not injured and she does look to be improving. I fear we will have to wait for her to waken, for only she can tell us what has induced this state." _If she even knows. _He left it unsaid, but Legolas nodded as if he'd heard the words before turning to his fallen friend. 

"Luinaur…." Legolas whispered, voice breaking on the final syllable. "What have you done?" He questioned the still unconscious elf, not really expecting a response. 

"He acted selflessly, if not a tad foolishly." Thalgaladh said warmly, stooping down beside the prince.

Legolas smiled fondly at his unconscious friend. "Verenaur said that you were doing the most foolish thing imaginable." Legolas whispered, taking one bandaged hand gingerly between his own swollen, bleeding fingers. "I should have known that he would be right. He is always right." _Was always right, _his mind corrected and he choked on the thought. Sweet voice trailed off, and he cast stern eyes toward the elven General. "What happened to him?"

Thalgaladh sighed and began a tale of snakes and fire. The king was tying off the General's injury, punctuating the tale with soft swears and groans. When he finished the story, Thalgaladh found himself pinned by twin sets of blue eyes. He shifted under the weight of their gazes and cursed them inwardly for inciting within him the desire to squirm. It was Oropher's intensity reflected in his kin's eyes, he knew, and for a moment Thalgaladh found himself lamenting his long deceased, obstinate lord.

"What snakes?" Legolas asked, clearly befuddled and disturbed by the entire scenario. 

Thalgaladh sneered in irritation. "The ones whose ash you trod upon when you approached this room."  


Legolas's eyes were round with confusion, seeking his father's for some sort of explanation. Thranduil gave a small half smile and shrug and the prince said, "I saw nothing in the corridor without, General Thalgaladh." Legolas hoped the use of title might soften the blow he knew his statement to be.

Thalgaladh cast a baleful glare at the prince, having no energy to reign in his irritation. He strolled over to the door to prove his point and stood agape in his shock, unwilling and unable to explain. The corridor that had been a festering, writhing snake pit now stood bare and clean. The only evidence of fire that remained were the dark charred streaks that rose up on the door like waves on the sea. "I do not understand," his voice dejected.

Thranduil replied, "That seems to be the theme for the evening, my friend." Thalgaladh turned to the king, despair plain upon his face. The Elvenking smiled at his long time friend. "Do not fret, for snakes there were. And thousands at that." Thalgaladh looked only slightly appeased by the declaration, and the King continued, "Just because no evidence can be found of their existence now does not mean they did not exist. Our home is cloaked in shadows and not all things are as they seem." 

Thalgaladh accepted the explanation as truth. The shadow played with them, preyed upon them. Even if its manifestations did not last forever, that did not make them any less real. Or deadly.

"Perhaps that explains what happened to the rats." Legolas postulated. Hope sparked within him that they might be onto some sort of pattern, even if its ultimate purpose remained muddled.

Thalgaladh nodded at the possibility. "Perhaps."

The prince tried to feel encouraged by the new discoveries, but found his spirit uncooperative. A glance at the red and white digits in his hand triggered thoughts of a deep chasm and a missing friend. Pushing aside his despair, Legolas muttered, "Will he be alright?" 

Thranduil stooped down and placed a cool palm across Luinaur's brow. The elf's skin was cool and dry, giving no indication of fever. The king lifted each eyelid, peering into the blue green eyes concealed beneath. "He sleeps now, which is a good sign. He is exhausted and in need of rest, no more. It would be best if his wounds were cleansed more thoroughly, and redressed as soon as possible. But he will recover."

Legolas nodded and smiled at his father's news, fighting to cling to hope in the face of the encroaching shadow. "Thank you, Ada. "

Thranduil's heart was a swelling ache in the face of his son's obvious grief. Hands reached for his son's stooped shoulder, pausing a hair's breadth from contact. He wanted to comfort his son, whisper reassurances to him. The man in him wanted to draw his family to him and run while he could. But he was king. As much as his heart longed to sit with his wife and son, his mind knew that he had to go. He could barely begin to fathom the horrors that awaited him. His people had endured much in the past hours that he'd been trapped or otherwise occupied, and the king could not help but feel shamed at his own absence and weakness. He should have gone to them immediately! They were without leadership, without a clear course of action. What sort of king abandons his people in such a crisis?

__

Indeed, Thranduil. Do you intend to continue feeling sorry for yourself? 

Despite the flare of irritation at the condescending tone in his father's imagined voice, Thranduil conceded the point. Inner imaginary Oropher was right, even if he was damn aggravating. 

Once decided, the King moved swiftly to retrieve his sword and join his people. 

Thranduil walked toward the General, stooping to lift and sheath his sword. Three steps brought him to Thalgaladh's side only to find his friend drawing his sword. Thranduil took an involuntary step backwards, eyeing his friend's blade warily. He fixed narrow eyes on his friend and awaited action. 

Footsteps from the hallway caught his attention and he trained his eyes on the doorway. Cautious fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword as he prepared to greet his newest guest.

A young warrior appeared in the doorway, bloodied, soot covered and grimy from what had obviously been a hard night. Panting in the doorway, he fell to one knee before the approaching king and general. "My lords," the elf rasped, voice thick and wet, "you must come to the wall. An army gathers at our gates."


	9. I Once Was Blind

I wasn't planning on updating until tomorrow, but because Deanna and Gwyn insisted, I am giving you Chapter 9 a day early. Thanks to my reviewers, who have made posting this story even more fun than writing (birthing?) it.

Disclaimer: Do we need to go through this? Okay. There are a few original characters who are the products of my insanely overactive imagination. Everyone and everything else belongs to Master Tolkien and we all bow down to his greatness.

-9-

I Once Was Blind

The forest wept, falling back and back from each approaching step. Sturdy limbs curled like shavings, leaves retreated into their withering vines as she progressed. The world was brown. 

Tears and tears fell, so many her slender slippers were soggy. And yet all remained dead. A tear for each dead flower and weeping tree would not restore the green to this dark wood. This wood where the air is thick and the river poison. Where the forest's canopy wore a gruesome gossamer veil of spider silk. She shut her eyes against it, clenched them till they hurt, till flashes of light and color danced. But still the rotten image hovered before her, tattooed on the insides of her eyelids.

Heavens flew by, the sun and moon dancing around the sky in an odd play of darkness and light. The world was changing and she was powerless. 

She saw a child, dark of hair and fair of eye, a crown on his head and ring on his hand. Tongues of fire licked his skin, toothy shadows reached for him. She meant to protest, to intervene, but could not.

This battle was not hers. She would not see it. 

The babe danced away, skittering out of reach as is the way of the young, and vanished into uncertainty. 

The sun hung red in the southern sky, a radiating eye staring unblinking at her, emitting malice rather than light or heat. White fingers shielded green eyes from the sight, but could not shield her visage from the ogling orb. It fixed on her. She felt the icy fire of its determination bend towards her. 

__

I sss-see you!

The voice was razors tearing at her, flames consuming her. She thrashed like a mad thing, scampered for cover under brown leaves but its gaze never wavered. It sing-songed and mocked, taunting her with its purpose and will. The wind spoke in her ears, guttural and foreign. Her bones understood and chattered an answer. Rasp gave way to breathy chuckle and she shuddered as fingers closed around her neck. 

Back she was drawn, tight. A cool, hard form pressed uncomfortably intimate along the length of her. Claw tipped fingers tickled her throat tracing shallow valleys in shimmering flesh. As below so above, and the blood traced through the pathways of her veins and seeped from the channels in her flesh. Her fearless heart thudded beneath a calloused palm. The breath condensing on her neck did not frighten her, nor the tongue lapping at the welling blood. The voice of the monster soothed her, its voice familiar as her own as it whispered to her. 

Incoherent mutterings. Sealed eyes still saw the world dying, painted in red and black. Thranduil rose before her, gilded and furious, skin shimmering brightly beneath the blistering red. She smiled at him for he had come, her warrior, lover and king. Black tipped fingers clutched over her eyes, obscuring her vision. She thrashed and groped, seeking the sparkle that crept between gnarled digits. Her fingers closed over cold flesh and she parted her lips on a gasp. A chuckle so deep she could only feel it as it reverberated through the hollow chest behind her. A sharp sting blossomed, and she heard a quiet explosion, felt the warm wet slip through her clenched eyelids soaking her lashes. The scream came from so deep that she might have birthed it, and it only grew louder, rawer, as the act was repeated on the other eye.

She wrenched at the hands over her eyes, fighting the pressure. Needing it. She wept tears and blood, and the gooey fluid that had for thousands of years had served as her eyes. Her eyes were wide open now, or perhaps they were closed, but she could not tell. It no longer mattered. And as she caught the drippings in her hands, she fancied that the green of her eyes stained the crunchy brown earth beneath her feet, and she could almost see her own desperate, blind form hovering above. 

-----------------------

Legolas rose from his crouch, stifling a hiss at the flare of pain in his knee. He straightened the injured leg, swelling joint burning at the movement. Truth was, he embraced the pain. It proved a focus for his thoughts, a beacon in the darkness, proof of life to his otherwise exhausted soul. Iciness spilled through him, flowing from his gut to his bloodied fingertips and setting his whole body to shake. 

He was afraid.

Oh, he was not afraid of battle. Despite his relatively tender years he was no stranger to conflict. The shadow cast wide over Greenwood was older than he, and its servants had crept about under its cover for centuries. He'd felt the hot spatter of enemy blood across his face, smelled the stench of flesh as it burned on a pyre, heard the screams of wounded as he pressed his advantage. It was not the promise of conflict that had his body trembling, stomach fluttering and heart racing. It was this enemy. This shadow that lurked in every corner of their home, herding them, driving them, cornering them. Every attack held some calculated purpose that they'd yet to divine. Each infinitesimal victory they'd eked out carried the echo of some defeat. Each trial survived claimed a casualty.

Who would be next? 

The question hung ominously in his mind, steeped in its potential. No matter how hard he tried to pack the thought away, to drown it in song or bury it with action, still it remained. The king and general were firing fast questions at Dunnacogn, but he could not hear them. The only sounds in his world were the thudding of his heart and the questions resonating through his mind. He wanted to stop his ears, or dash out his brain to silence the thoughts, but neither seemed a viable solution. Instead he leaned his weight onto his injured leg. Dancing flecks of alternating light and dark filled his vision as fire poured from his knee to his ankle, and he nearly bit through his lip in an effort to stifle the scream. The bliss that followed the easing pressure was only surpassed by the silence in his mind. Not even the coppery tinge of blood on his lips and tongue, or the sting of the fresh cut to his lip could dull the euphoric peace in his mind as he made his way over to the three frantic elves.

Legolas found his vantage point from just beyond the small circle quite telling. He could not help but wonder whether his father shared in his doubt and fear, and studied him for any discernible crack in composure. As always the king was all authoritative grace as he donned his cloak and weapons and strutted toward the door to face the impending threat. 

Thalgaladh pulled the warrior to his feet and the three elves were half way out the door when Legolas stepped forward tapped the king's arm. Thranduil glanced at Legolas and tried to suppress the surprise at his son's sudden appearance. In his haste to the wall he'd completely forgotten Legolas's presence. A warm wave of shame crashed over him but dismissed the feeling immediately, having no time for such indulgence. A thin eyebrow curved up in unspoken question. Then the words that he dreaded slipped from the prince's lips: "I am coming with you."

Thranduil's head was shaking a denial before the sentence was completed. "No, Legolas."

"But…"

"Silence." Both elves flinched at the tone, though Thranduil was certain that he'd covered his better. He hoped. 

The bruised fingers on the king's arm fell away, and he immediately regretted the loss. Legolas bit back the retort that sat on the tip of his tongue and raised his chin defiantly at his father. Thranduil recognized the look (after all, he'd borne it countless times) and the sentiment behind it and sighed. He did not have time for his son's wounded pride. 

__

Make time. The voice, when it came, was his wife's. 

Thranduil bowed in deference to his wife's subliminal wishes. She was, after all, correct. The king nodded at Thalgaladh and Dunnacogn, a silent order for them to proceed without him, before turning to the indignant prince. He hadn't wanted to hurt Legolas, and he feared that was just what he'd done. He reached out and gathered swollen fingers in his own, felt the slight tension induced tremor and knew that his son was fighting not to withdraw the hand. "Legolas, I know you think me blind to your strength, but 'tis not so." Disbelief crept into the icy blue eyes, but the cold expression remained stoically unchanged. Thranduil fought the smirk that threatened to steal his composure. How strange it is to see your own expressions and manners play over another's features! How strange when those features are your own, and yet distinctly not. "There are many things that have remained unspoken between us, and that fact saddens me. But now is not the time for conversation or regret. We can afford no mistakes this night. Our enemy is strong, cunning and has the advantage of surprise. I will need your help if we are to survive…" Pink lips parted to comment, but Thranduil silenced him. "But not on the wall. I have enough warriors." Legolas snapped his mouth shut, ground his back teeth together and turned away. A fluttering muscle in his jaw was the only betrayal of his stillness. 

Thranduil exhaled through his nose in an effort to stamp down his irritation. Had he been this difficult? All questions, denials and wounded pride? Was he as unwilling to accept the wisdom of his elders as his two obstinate boys? 

A deep, merry chuckle resonated through his mind, the only answer he'd ever receive to his unspoken questions. _Father, I understand so much better. How you must have longed to throttle me! _He released the hand in favor of the tense chin and turned Legolas to look into his eyes. "I have no time to coddle you now." 

"I am not a child to be coddled." The words were quiet, hissed through clenched teeth to temper their defiance. 

"Then stop behaving as one!" The slim form stiffened, straightened and stilled once more. Legolas was rigid with anger, and Thranduil fared only slightly better. "You are a prince, and tonight you shall learn what that means. Well do I understand your frustration. It is time you learned that it is of no consequence. I need you not as a warrior but a leader. I have captains who will lead our warriors in battle, but none who will lead them from the depths of their despair. There are many injured, among them are you mother and friend. This night may bring more yet. I want you to gather them all together in the throne room. That is the most secure location in the mountain. We must treat and protect them. This is your responsibility."

  
The stony jaw in his hand softened with acquiescence. "I am no healer."   


"I know this. I do not expect you to heal their wounds. It is their spirit you must tend." Legolas's brow folded up with his confusion and the king said, "Just lead them. They will look to you for counsel, consolation and protection. Are you afraid?" Legolas hesitated. The swift change of topic unbalanced and confused him. Eyebrows knitted together and he studied the king in an effort to ascertain the correct answer. The mask of Thranduil's face revealed nothing. Frustrated and half convinced that he'd fallen into some sort of trap, Legolas nodded an affirmative. "You are not alone in this fear." The king waited a beat for this to sink in, waited for the muscles beneath his fingers to unfurl a bit more. "Just be yourself, my son. Our people love you and will be comforted by your presence."

He wanted to argue further, wanted to rail at his father. Why did he not trust him to fight? He'd stared into clouded, vacuous eyes that saw no more and felt unnaturally cold flesh against his own. He knew from the depths of his soul that had Belegalad been here tonight he would not have been tasked with tending the sick. He would be standing beside his father and king, sword in hand. Nay! He would be leading the campaign against the invading force. He gave voice to none of these thoughts, however, for they were childish and petty, and he was adult enough to identify them as such. Instead, the prince acquiesced. "I understand." 

Thranduil held the eyes that were his own, watching the fear war with determination before turning away. He could see his son's dissatisfaction with this turn of events. Could, in fact, feel it in his gut. The fact that the prince had ceased the pursuit of his own desires in favor of honoring his father's made the king's heart swell. Had he been in Legolas's place, he no doubt would have pressed the issue. Yet the disturbingly young prince had risen above his years to claim his station. How maddeningly proud Thranduil was of him! He sent a brief prayer up to Ilú vatar that one day he might get the chance to tell him. Dismissing the flight of fancy, Thranduil once again focused on the practicalities of the situation. "Where are your weapons?" 

Legolas flushed and cast his eyes downward. "We were caught outside unawares. I did not have them with me." He had been dreading this moment for hours. He closed his eyes awaiting the rebuke. What sort of warrior ventured out unarmed? This would only prove to his father that he'd made the right decision in not allowing him to fight. After a moment of quiet self flagellation he peeked upward only to see his father righting his weapon trunk and rummaging through it. His face twisted, forming the question that his mouth dared not.

Thranduil marked the quickly passing time and hastened his search. The entirety of his room, and undoubtedly his home, was upended. The wooden trunk that usually sat locked in the far corner of his room was upside down and cracked near the bed. He flipped and sifted through it, finally pulling free a small polished black box.

"I would have liked to give this to you under circumstances less…dire," he said. Legolas's eyes were fixed on the ebony box in his hands, and the king smiled when his son's blue eyes finally directed their query to him. He said nothing, just offered the box to Legolas.

The prince took the offering wordlessly and slid his hands over the smooth, cool wood. He traced the engraving of his family crest on the top, and held an anticipatory breath. The latch snapped open with a startlingly loud click, and he lifted the lid to reveal twin ivory handled knives. "Ada," he breathed.

"My father gave them to me when I was about your age. Each one is an effective weapon alone, but together and in the right hands they are lethal." Thranduil lifted the two blades from the box and examined them. For over a thousand years they lay idle, and yet they were as keen and sparkling as the day he'd put them away. They still felt natural in his hands, weighted and balanced perfectly. Oropher had commissioned the blades for him, a token of affection from an otherwise stern and taciturn elf. Thranduil had loved them with a ferocity only overshadowed by his love for his father…and now his sons. He spun them once, heard them whistle and whir, and allowed a small nostalgic smile to spread over his lips. These blades would split bone with the same ease as air. Satisfied with their condition he held them out.

Legolas took the cool ivory handles in his hands and felt them warm to his touch. The blades were so light it was as if he held nothing at all, and yet, he could feel the danger pulse through them. He felt unworthy of so grand a gift, recognizing the knives as the ones that his father had used during the Last Alliance. With equal parts excitement and trepidation, Legolas asked, "Are you certain?"

The smile the king wore blunted his exasperated huff. "Were you not listening? They are yours, and have been since you were born. I have merely been holding them for you." 

Glowing like a child with a shiny new toy, Legolas examined the blades once more before placing them back into the box. When he looked up again, his father produced a quiver and bow for him. Legolas shook his head and whispered, "I don't understand."

"You cannot very well keep the knives in a box, can you? This quiver was designed to holster your new knives. And if you do not understand why I am giving you a bow, my son, then you have not been paying attention."

Legolas's brow furrowed and Thranduil smirked at him. Legolas took the bow and quiver from his father with little less than reverence, unwilling to speak again and shatter the moment. The two stood in quiet camaraderie before Thranduil said, "I must go. I fear I have lingered too long already." He stepped forward and embraced the prince, clapping him firmly on the back. "Take care my son. These weapons will serve you well in the shadow of this night." Before Legolas could formulate a response, his father was gone.

-------------------------

It was dark, unimaginably so, and had it not been for the all encompassing pain that rattled his body, he might have fancied he'd died. 

No such luck.

He ached. Oh, he ached everywhere as he lay face down on the ground. At least, he assumed it was the ground. It was so dark, and his brain so muddled that he might very well be sprawled upon the ceiling. The strange image induced a mental smirk. _At least that would be a change. _

How had he gotten here? He fought through the warm haze that had settled over his mind and found the struggle too difficult. He couldn't produce a whole and complete thought without his mind drifting to probe at some new ache it discovered. He pushed himself up, felt a white hot flare of agony spill from his chest through his entire body, and slumped back onto the cold ground. 

Apparently his body was going to fight him as well.

He lay there and breathed for a while, not thinking and definitely not moving. Just breathing, which was much more of a chore than was healthy. From the sharpness of the pain in his chest, Verenaur determined that something must be broken. He wanted to lay where he was and never move again, but something rational buried at the back of his brain protested, whispering that should he remain prone upon the ground he very well may never move again. 

Refusing to die so disgraceful a death, Verenaur got his arms beneath him again and pushed. The pain was no duller despite the absence of shock. Flat white teeth clamped down on tongue and lower lip, drawing copious amounts of blood into his mouth to add to the already foul taste that lingered. So gritted against it, Verenaur continued the slow press upwards. A whimpering squeak slipped through torn lips, and he sucked his lip deeper into his mouth, bit down harder. His painful effort produced a vibrating moan rather than a shriek, and had he the capability, he might have been proud of the improvement. As it was, it was all he could do to remain conscious as he fought his way onto hands and knees. The room spun despite his inability to see it doing so, and Verenaur retched and vomited on the floor beneath him. His body stiffened and his ribs screeched their protest to his flagrant abuse, yet he remained upright through it all. After all, to fall back to the ground now would mean landing in his own vomit. His pride might have suffered this night, but it had not been obliterated. He would have to be dead in order to allow such a humiliation. When his muscles finally unwound from the tense purging, he sagged gratefully and sat upon the heels of his feet, clinging with both hands to his wounded chest. The pressure on the injury was both a blessing and a curse, and he maintained the hold through the white flashes and light headedness. 

Rather than dulling his already blunt senses, the pain brought him to full consciousness. Another simultaneous blessing and curse for with greater clarity of thought came sharper awareness of pain. It also brought memory. The passageway to the King's chambers, the strange echoing groan, the floor disintegrating from beneath the prince's feet, the look of unchecked fear in blue eyes as his friend plummeted into the deep void beneath him. The ghost of flesh against the pads of his fingers as he groped after Legolas's vanishing form. 

Then nothing. 

It was a strange feeling, a free fall. One he'd never experienced before and felt no need to try again. The air hits you with such force that you'd swear it was a fist and not air at all. Eyes water in an effort to remain open, and shut against the cool blast of air in spite of themselves. Innards knot up as if somehow you left them behind when you decided to take your downward journey. Everything inside and outside gets pushed, pulled and rearranged, and your mind is still processing the lack of friction as your body trembles in anticipatory fear. Adrenaline floods your system, sharpening your awareness and setting your limbs to flail. Time stretches and shifts, stealing all perceptions because while it feels like you have been plummeting all your life, the ground rises up and smacks you mere heartbeats after the initial drop. Then there is only darkness.

__

And pain, let's not forget the pain. 

Now was not the time to be concerned with pain. The image of his dear friend vanishing into the gaping maw had branded itself behind his eyelids, and the lack of any actual visual stimulus only enhanced it. The slight lurch of ground unbalancing the prince; the solid stone of the floor pulverized into dust and pebble only to reveal a giant, jagged void. A flash of gold and flying hair as the prince was sucked down and away, devoured by the darkness below. Fear bubbled up as hot tears and gathered at the corners of his eyes. "Legolas?" Verenaur gritted out, once his breathing calmed enough to form words. The first three attempts to call for the prince had resulted in undignified moans and squeaks of pain. "Legolas? Are you here?"

Nothing.

Another flutter of fear, this one centered in his sour stomach, and for one very frightening moment, Verenaur thought he might just retch again. If that happened he doubted he would remain conscious let alone upright. The idea of battling his way vertical again made him shiver. "Legolas?" he paused, holding his breath in anticipation of a response. "Answer me!" He was yelling now, though caution dictated that he remain silent. Who knew what lurked in the pitch?

His mind churned in concert with his stomach. What was he to do? His first priority was to locate Legolas. But how was he to find him in such darkness when he was so debilitated that the simple inactivity of kneeling made him swoon? Verenaur peered into the darkness, eyes round as the full moon, hoping and dreading to spot some glint of pale flesh or golden hair. Of course there was nothing to be seen. It was pitch black!

He had to get up. He knew it empirically, though his body was unwilling to consent to that particular demand of his mind. He'd settle for crawling, but he didn't believe that his body would be able to take the kind of pain that such an endeavor would surely inflict. One hand released its death grip on his side to touch a flushed cheek. It was hot and wet, possibly with blood and definitely with sweat. He had no time to concern himself with either presently.

He adjusted his grip on his screaming ribs to one of greater support and placed the other on the ground, palm flat, fingertips bent. It was that cool stone he concentrated on, the sandy grit dusted over scratchy surface. He tightened his thighs, aching to unbend his shaking legs. His ankles trembled, sending a tiny shockwave through his body that rattled his broken ribs. He moaned and bit down on his lip again, opening another stinging wound. Fingers pressed and palm arched until he was half standing, eyes sealed, balanced precariously on calloused fingertips. It was time to release his hold on the earth, but he was uncertain and afraid. What if he should let go only to topple over? Would he ever muster the energy to begin so arduous a task again? 

His legs quavered dangerously, nearly spilling him onto the gritty ground again. He could wait no longer. The ache in his ribs had grown into a throbbing burn that the pain in his lip could no longer counterbalance. He considered chewing off his lip as means of buying himself another moment of waiting time, but his legs wobbled. There was no more time to buy.

With a tremendous effort, Verenaur pushed with both arm and legs, weaved once and finally stood upright in the dark cave. He maintained his grip on his ribs, bringing his other arm around to join in the support effort. The throb-burn eased and with it, his hold on his lower lip. The flesh was bloodied, and as he ran a tongue over the welling puncture he felt some hanging shreds. Nothing serious though it stung like mad. 

__

Proof of life, dear brother. Do not fret so over such trifles. 

"Be silent, Luinaur. I cannot bear your rambles," he sneered. The voice in his mind chortled snidely at him before falling silent, and Verenaur felt his lip curl. How he longed to throttle his brother at times like these! 

The silence prompted him to open his eyes, and reality slapped him with all the force of a jilted lover. No one spoke to him a moment ago, which meant he spoke to no one. He had not seen his brother in hours. Or was it days? How long had he lay on the floor in the darkness anyway? The question unsettled him, for in truth, he had no way to gauge such a thing. Without sun, sky or span of consciousness there was in fact, no way to judge exactly how much time had passed since he fell into this pit. Which meant there was no way to be certain that anyone would ever come searching for him.

What now?

He had to move, to find a way out of this maddeningly dark pit into which he'd been cast. First, however, he had to search for Legolas. The task should be simple, for logic dictated that if he'd fallen here, Legolas should not be too far off. But without light, or full use of his faculties, how would he accomplish even the most basic search of this area he now occupied? 

Never one to be put off by the impossible, Verenaur took a small step forward. His body shook and his ribs rattled and he had to wait for the dizzying nausea to pass. Once it did, he found the pain bearable. Heartened by this fact, he took another step forward only to collide with a wall. Hands that had held his ribs now clutched at the rock face in an effort to keep him upright. He cursed once, glanced about quickly out of habit and cursed again at his own stupidity. Determined to remain optimistic, he decided that bumping into the wall was the best of all possible scenarios (except for the ache in his nose) as it provided him both an idea of the layout of the dark space as well as a buttress to support his aching, injured body.

Since he had no idea how to begin such a haphazard and shoddy search, rescue and escape, he decided to hold fast to the wall to establish some sort of a perimeter around his search area. Hand over hand, step after excruciating step he traveled along the jagged rock face. He peered ceaselessly into the emptiness to no avail. He may as well be blind, for all the good his eyes did him. If he'd thought that it was dark when Legolas attacked him earlier that was only because he'd never truly experienced total blackness before. The darkness that closed around him now had weight, and unless the knock on his head scrambled his brains, intent. The tiny hairs on his arms stood at attention as if they too were staring into the nothingness. 

Something was wrong. He'd traveled perhaps five paces along the rock face when the feeling of alarm pooled in his belly. He'd been trying to dismiss the low tingle in his spine and the prickle along his skin as the aftershocks of his spectacular fall coupled with the stress of the past hours (days?). But the new vivid sensation was undeniable. It was the same feeling that sent deer scampering and rabbits bounding. The feeling that a predator lurked close. He froze, doing his best to meld with the rock face, held his breath and simply listened. 

The silence thrummed and pulsed, ebbing and flowing somehow despite its perfect stillness. Is it possible for quiet to crescendo into a roar? Perhaps it was merely the blood surging through his body echoing through the catacombs of his ears.

__

Your dependence on your eyes is your greatest flaw. A true hunter utilizes all his senses. Soft silk, then darkness. _Deprivation of one sense heightens the others. Just be still and listen. _

Prince Belegalad's voice filled his mind, whispering warrior and hunter teachings as reverently as any prayer. Belegalad was one of the greatest hunters in Greenwood and Verenaur had been honored that the prince would deign to teach him. He'd expected the prince to be like his father: kind yet stern, and incredibly short of patience. It was one of the few times in his life that he happily admitted his error, and over the course of his training, the two had formed a friendship. His thoughts drifted to the present, to the absent prince and his unknown fate, and he felt his blind eyes well.

__

Distraction will cost you, the missing prince scolded, and Verenaur heeded the imagined voice. Burying all thoughts of missing princes and lost friends, Verenaur focused his attention on the sounds around him. Silence, it turned out, could indeed be voluminous, and the elf had to strain to hear the tiny sounds that it threatened to absorb. Once he caught them echoing in the void, he couldn't understand how he'd ever missed them. 

Tiny scratches, like velvet sliding over skin, twittered through the darkness and Verenaur drew himself tighter to the wall. Taps quieter and faster than a bird hopping along a branch. Whatever it was he heard possessed extraordinary stealth. The more disturbing fact was that said stealthy creature was close. Too close. 

He spent a moment debating: should he move? Moving might reveal his presence to an unwitting and potentially dangerous predator. Then again, remaining in the same general locale with said predator didn't seem a wise choice either. 

Damned either way. Instinct dictated that it was best to move. Why get caught sitting when you could be running instead? Conscience momentarily warred with his instinct, screaming that he had not yet found Legolas. To leave him here, alone, in the presence of a predator was unacceptable. Of course, to get devoured by said predator himself would do the prince no good, if, indeed, he was even here. Something deep within him--training or instinct--demanded that he leave, attempt to save himself. Belegalad had taught him to always trust his instincts for seldom, if ever, do they mislead. Nauseated but determined, he leaned hard to the side in an attempt to flee. The motion induced a tremendous tightening in his chest accented by a brief sharp pain. Stilling again, he reweighed the two available options while considering the crown prince's teachings. 

A skittering just to his right interrupted his pondering and spurred him into action. With one hand wrapped firmly around his chest and the other tracing along the wall, Verenaur moved with as much speed and stealth as his injured body allowed. Which was not nearly as much as he would have preferred. His body felt leaden and awkward, and his movements were choppy and graceless. He almost felt human in his ineptitude and the thought upped his ire a notch. Was anything more humiliating for an elf than being likened to a human in manners of grace and stealth? 

__

Look on the bright side, brother. You could be as loud as a dwarf. He shook his head violently to dispel the irritating voice. Whether it was a conjuration of his own mind, or a trick of the shadow he did not know. But the voice was unmistakably there and determined to shatter his frail composure. He glided along the wall, following the darkened path ever deeper into the mountain.


	10. Discoveries and Resolutions

To all who have reviewed, I offer a humble and hearty thank you. I'm so glad you are enjoying the story. I had a long, trying day today and did not think that I'd be able to sift through this chapter and post it. All your kind words motivated me.

Disclaimer: I do not own Middle Earth. If I did, I wouldn't have to work for people who insist I drive through blizzards in order to yell at me for being late. 

-10-

Discoveries and Resolutions

Ages had passed as she wept in bitter darkness. Her light was gone. Her love had left. No more could she see the fair woods. Greens and blues were forever lost to her, and only a shadow of the memory of gold remained. The gold of the sun, the gold of her lover's hair.

Elves were rumored to have perfect memories, yet she could not conjure his eyes, his skin. As if the gouging of her emerald eyes stole not just the sights of the future, but those of the past.

A tear for each flower, a tear for each elf. Thousands would wither, diminish and die while she floundered in the infinite darkness for some inkling of time or place. 

Evil lurked close. It pressed upon her from everywhere, slowing her beating heart in its bony prison, suffocating the very life from her body. Fearless, heedless, she pressed on with soft footsteps, the damp coldness of the ground seeping into her feet. She had no need for eyes to know she treaded through woods no longer. The floor was stone, as were the walls. A cave, a palace, a tomb. No matter. She pressed on, groping hands sliding over the cool wall as she walked the path, tracing unknown footsteps. She could smell blood and pain along the trail. Salted tears marked her way like breadcrumbs and she followed them, tasted them on her lips though her own eyes were far too ruined for weeping. Someone had passed this way fleeing from the evil that even now dimpled her skin. 

__

SSS-Sleep.

A hiss. A command, but not for her. It struck a deep chord within her, spurring her onward, drawing no fear. She was beneath notice now, the great burning eye turned from her and intent on some other soul--the warrior whose path she traced. And now she knew her blindness was not purposeless. Had she eyes, she'd never have found the shivering form upon the floor. The dark in which she walked was not just her own now. It was a blanket, heavy and scratchy, laden with ice. No, eyes could not pierce this darkness, she knew. But her mind could see what her eyes could not, and the voice again suggested sleep to the poor dying soul withering beside her. 

Warm fingers sifted through bloodied locks to rest against an unnaturally heated cheek. She wanted to speak, thought she might have whispered of awakenings. Her voice no longer worked though, at least, not so she could hear it. Perhaps the creature that had torn out her eyes and stolen away with her hearing? Nay, that was impossible, for she heard the oily voice as it wound round the poor broken soul on the floor, strangling the life steadily from his body.

He was slipping away.

Sadness welled within her heart. Tears filled her mind's eye, their reality running as blood down her porcelain face. Hands that could feel could not be felt, it seemed, for the body beneath her gentle hands stirred only with each shallow breath. And that too was fading. 

She was cursed. Or perhaps damned. Cursed to feel this life slip from her grasp, to be a blind witness to some solitary warrior's pain and torment. Why did Iluvatar send her here in her blind reverie if not to save this soul? How could she save it in her own debilitation? Frustration at the conundrum mounted, then ebbed as quickly, fading into a lingering woe. Sitting beside the fallen warrior, stroking his heated brow the Queen of Greenwood did the only thing left in her power. She sang:

__

I sang of leaves, of leaves of gold, and leaves of gold there grew:

Of wind I sang, a wind there came and in the branches blew.

Beyond the Sun, beyond the Moon, the foam was on the Sea,

And by the strand of Ilmarin there grew a golden Tree.

Beneath the stars of Ever-eve in Eldamar it shone,

In Eldamar beside the walls of Elven Tirion.

There long the golden leaves have grown upon the branching years,

While here beyond the Sundering Seas now fall the Elven-tears…

(-J.R.R. Tolkien, _The Lord of the Rings_. p.363_)_

The sadness flowed from her as water through a sieve. Never before had songs of Valinor poured forth from her. Ever had her songs been of wood and leaf, of toil and triumph. But never had she felt such loss as the visions of diminishing woods, poisoned rivers and war torn land impressed upon her. For the first time in her life did she feel the weariness which sent so many of her kin across the Sundering Seas to seek the peace of the Undying Lands. Or the peace that lay within the Halls of Mandos.

__

Perhaps that is why I come here. Not to guide him to life, but to accompany him on his final journey. Finding some sense of satisfaction with that notion, Linnaloth hummed and murmured as she stroked the bloodied, silky locks, listening for his final breath.

…_Too long I have dwelt upon this Hither Shore_

And in a fading crown have twined the golden elanor.

But if of ships I now should sing, what ship would come to me,

What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a Sea? p.363

--------------------------

The darkness didn't bother it, had it any notion of bother. In fact, were it capable, it might even find the dark comforting as it folded itself up neatly and settled down. There was a vague sense of something seeping through cloth and flesh and settling into the sharp hip joints. It neither recognized nor dwelled on the feeling. It was cold, for a certainty. But the creature had no memory of any other state of being, so the cold slipped away from its mind with everything else.

Everything but the blood.

The hot blood of the golden haired thing that lingered still on its tongue, that lay crusted yet beneath sharp claws resisting all efforts of its hunger. Even now after so long it could feel the soft warmth of creamy skin as it ruptured to pour forth even warmer liquid. A veritable fount it had been, and it couldn't expunge the want of it with all else. Yellow eyes fixed on claws that seemed a part of some other thing, yet responded to wishes it didn't even realize it had. 

Reaching, brushing the thing before it, the round, plump thing covered in thousands of smaller things. All unknown to such an empty creature, and yet somehow familiar. It sniffed, nose twitching and wrinkling at the scent that pulled at its mind. Moist, sweet smell. It closed its hand about it, rubbing fingers and thumb over the smoothness, felt the life in the inanimate thing, heard it whisper

/sing/

to it, momentarily drown out the other incessant voice. Drew its hand back and it was standing, heard the silence except for the whispering voice that commanded it. _Snaga_, the voice rasped, and it knew that to be itself. And it settled down again to wait, for the voice of its master commanded it so. It was still, eyes fixed on the shiny, waxy, living thing before it. Without thought, it reached again, touched the thing with life and voice and something ignited in its mind.

__

/Leaf. Greenleaf./

And there was light as the sides of its head shrieked. Golden hair and a gentle smile filled its mind before pain and shadow shredded the vision. The voice that thus far had whispered, roared through it, setting limbs to tingle and mind to burn. The image vanished, devoured by rotten teeth inside its head and digested by shadow. 

The sky hovered above it, thick and swirling, and it blinked its cloudy eyes, felt the cool wet drop slide down its face to join the coolness beneath its back. From its prone position upon the dampened earth, it studied the pulsing sky and its empty mind for something…. There were no answers to be found without or within. Drawing its sinewy frame upright, its eyes once again fell on the strange, living thing before it. A vague recognition swirled through it and it snarled.

/Agony/

Clawed fingers reached for the singing thing, enfolded it once more in a gentle clasp before fisting. Sharp points disappeared inside the thing's strange, crisp flesh, wetting their tips with its moist life, before rending it asunder. With every ounce of violence the ruined thing possessed, it shredded the perceived source of its pain, snuffing out its song before devouring its remains. 

What had once pulsed with life tasted of death as razor teeth chomped and a parched throat convulsively swallowed. It's master chuckled his pleasure at the display, and the last vise hold loosened on the poor, wasted mind. The pain ebbed, washing away the song and the damp, leaving behind only the bright memory of gold hair and hot blood. And a word.

Greenleaf.

--------------------------

Exhaustion soaked him. Or was it sweat? He could not tell as he continued on his trudge through the darkness. His footfalls had grown leaden with each step, some part of his mind registering the fact that such weariness was unnatural for one of the Firstborn, and probably indicative of hidden injuries. 

As if in response to the unvoiced reflection, Verenaur's body seized up in a coughing fit that had him clutching uselessly at his cracked ribs. The air wheezed and crackled out of him, taking with it a great deal of energy. Colors exploded in his head, and dark splotches danced across his vision. He would have thought such a thing impossible when considering the total void of light around him, but the darkness pressed in points upon him all the same, threatening to steal away consciousness. He fought for a long moment, dragging in gulps of air to clear his mind, only to choke even harder. The new onslaught brought him to one knee and might have toppled him completely had he not been leaning so heavily upon the wall. Eventually the spasms ceased, granting him respite from their ferocity. A dry tongue swept over cracked, feverish lips, noting dimly the coppery tang of blood.

He was bleeding internally. Verenaur felt oddly detached as he made the observation, despite its implications. He was a warrior, a fairly seasoned one at that, and so no stranger to injuries. Broken bones will mend and surface cuts will heal, but without attention, internal hemorrhaging would claim even the stoutest of souls. 

Weary eyelids drooped along with the rest of his body, and before he'd realized what happened, Verenaur felt the floor pressed full and intimate along the length of his body. Something deep within screamed at him to rise, to keep going, that it was neither sleep nor unconsciousness falling over him, but the icy veil of death. _I just need a little rest,_ and he wasn't certain if he said the words, or merely thought them, but their simple formulation heightened the need acutely. Half lidded eyes closed despite the weak protestations from what was left of his conscious mind.

Cold. He was vaguely aware that he was cold, though he couldn't muster the energy to curl in on himself for warmth. He shivered and trembled on the damp floor, tasting the blood that lingered in the back of his throat.

__

SSS-Sleep.

The hissed suggestion nudged him toward the bliss of painless darkness, slowing his breathing and heart. Numbness spread through the various levels of his body, taking the feeling from his limbs and the pain from his ribs. The cold dampness faded into memory as he was sundered even more from his physical being.

__

SSS-Sleep, the dark voice beckoned and he heeded it, giving himself over willingly to the darkness enfolding him.

--------------------------

Legolas hefted his burden up onto his shoulders, his injured knee buckling beneath the weight. The journey between the royal chambers and the throne room was brief and wholly unfamiliar now. Fallen rocks and shifted terrain made a mess of the short walk, and unstable, uneven ground made the normally carefree elf wary. All too well did he remember his plunge into darkness, and he was not at all interested in a repeat performance with the burden of his injured, unconscious friend upon his shoulders. One friend plummeting into the deep abyss was more than enough for one evening.

"Come on then, Luinaur. We are almost there." The distressed groan that answered his whisper was more than he'd expected from the burned elf. He toyed with the idea of stopping to rouse his friend, ultimately deciding against it. Such a stop might prove time consuming and ultimately counterproductive, and the prince did not wish to dally longer than necessary in returning to his injured mother. "Peace, mellon nin. Rest a little longer." He murmured, hoping the soft tones would lull the rousing elf for a little longer.

Legolas never would have imagined a task so simple as moving his mother and friend to the throne room to be so grueling. Abandoning his injured friend upon the floor of his parents' chambers in order to transport his mother to the throne room had been difficult. The prince could not shake the fear that he would return to an empty room, his friend a victim of the thick, enveloping shadow. But there was no choice really. Luinaur would box his ears if he found out that Legolas had left his injured and unconscious mother prostrate upon the floor to see his friend to safety first. Not to mention the fact that his own heart would not allow such a thing. He'd cursed his injuries for long moments before something whispered in his mind to stop dawdling and get on with it already. With a lingering, sorrowful backward glance, the prince bore the queen up in his arms and to the throne room.

The room still stood tall and proud, with only a few tapestries and baubles spread across the floor. With a sardonic smirk he noted that his father had been correct yet again. He wasn't certain if he was surprised or disgusted to find the near entirety of the court huddled together, cowering in the once lavish room. They were no happier to see him than he them, but Legolas couldn't muster the energy to even glower at them for their audacity. He decided to remain silent when one of the elf lords whose name he didn't bother trying to recall came to aid him with his mother, blabbering about some nonsense the prince could not abide. That they should be hovering here while the people of Greenwood were besieged within their home proved them little more than finely clothed cowards, and had the night not been such a marathon of evil, he might have told them so. _You are lucky my brother is not here_, the prince thought as he mentally sneered at the lords and ladies of Greenwood. _He would not have demonstrated such restraint. _ Still, he could not resent their presence entirely as it meant that he did not need to leave his mother alone while he returned to fetch his fallen friend.

Without pomp or courtesy, the prince retreated from the room, doing his best to conceal his limp from the vultures of his father's court. _Never let predators or nobles sense weakness in you, brother. They will pounce without thought._ Belegalad shared in his father's annoying habit of being right, and so the youngest prince always heeded his advice, especially in dealings with the court. 

The thought of his brother visiting his ire upon the nobility brought a smile to Legolas's lips and a sadness to his heart. The two princes, with more than a little help from Luinaur and Verenaur had played numerous inventive pranks on the nobles. Their pranks had more than once caused Thranduil to turn bright red in anger, and Linnaloth to shake her head in dismay. Thalgaladh, the princes' only ally within the court, would often lean over and whisper something in the king's ear which would inevitably cool his wrath and draw a small smirk. "Why couldn't I have had daughters?" The king would respond under his breath, which only served to elicit more laughter from the already hyperventilating elves. The nobles were never pleased with the king's lack of punishment for his sons' 'unacceptable' behavior. But then again, the nobles were seldom pleased.

"At least some things remain the same, eh Luinaur?" Legolas mused, chuckling at his own joke. The elf across his shoulders shuddered, disrupting Legolas's balance. The prince's knee wrenched and popped as he shifted his friend's dead weight back up onto his shoulder, and he swore quite proficiently into the echoing corridor. 

The throne room was abuzz with chatter as he limped in and settled his friend down on a fallen tapestry. Luinaur's eyes were twitching beneath the sealed lids, fighting their way open. Legolas settled beside him and lay a cool palm across the hot cheek. With gentle voice and soft words, the prince lured his friend back to consciousness.

Blue green eyes snapped open, still roving madly in an effort to focus. The sharp lines and colors of the world remained blurred and jumbled, and Luinaur shut his eyes against the nauseating image.

"No. Do not drift off again." The entreating voice hovered near enough that its warm breath tickled his nose. He twitched his heavy eyelids again, turning his head into the voice and felt the cool palm across his cheek. "Come on, my friend. Just try."

His weary mind placed the voice. "Legolas." 

"Aye, that's it Luinaur. Come back." 

Impossible. Legolas was dead. He'd seen it. They'd left him. He'd fallen. No wait, that wasn't right, was it? Not fallen but burned. No, that didn't feel right either. "Legolas?" He shuffled through his weary mind for any inkling of reality. He blinked open swollen eyes, saw a faint glint of gold and fought for focus. "How?" He struggled with heavy limbs, twitched and reached for the golden blob before him.

"Don't move just yet," Legolas said, staring into the alarmingly dilated eyes. Luinaur ignored him, so he took the burned hand and held it in his own. "Can you see anything?"

Tired eyes closed again and the elf swallowed audibly. Legolas feared that he'd drifted once again into unconsciousness when the eyes opened again and focused a little more on him. "Everything is fuzzy." A secret smile tugged at the injured elf's mouth. "But I can see you."

Legolas smiled back at his friend. "You gave me quite a fright," he said, turning his attention to the burned hand between his own. He slowly unwound the bandage to examine the wound. "What did you think you were doing?"

Burned fingers tightened around his own and Legolas looked back into his friend's eyes. "I am so sorry Legolas."

"Whatever for?" Sensing his friend's grief, the prince affected a light tone. 

"We left you." Luinaur replied incredulously, his questing eyes implying that Legolas might be a bit dim.

Left him? He sought through his memories for the answer to the riddle before realization dawned. He could not help but chuckle. Valar, that had been so many hours ago that he'd nearly forgotten about it. "Don't be foolish. I told you to leave. Besides, I'm fine."

The injured elf had the nerve to harrumph before mumbling, "You don't look so fine to me."

Legolas arched a brow before saying, "You obviously haven't gotten a good look at yourself lately. Now hold still. I'll be right back." 

Before Luinaur could protest, Legolas was gone. In truth, his head hurt horrendously, as did his burned digits. He longed for the numbness that unconsciousness afforded. He closed his weary eyes for a moment only to open them under the cool weight on his forehead. He looked up into Legolas's blue eyes. "Oh good. I thought you'd drifted off again." 

A small head shake was all he could manage. "Just resting my eyes." He rasped, trying to clear the frog from his throat. Heavy eyelids closed once more, and the coolness disappeared from his head.

"Rest then, mellon-nin." The prince sang softly as he set out to carefully clean the wounds. In the time he'd been transporting Luinaur, several healers and more injured had arrived at the throne room by order of the king. The warriors had set up a triage area where injuries were assessed and then tended based on severity. Legolas had hoped to obtain attention for his friend, but all the healers had been occupied with more seriously injured elves. The prince did, however, manage to wrangle up some clean water, salve and bandages for his friend's injuries, as well as the promise of a healer that they would come and tend to Luinaur as soon as possible. 

With gentle hands, Legolas cleaned as much of the soot and dried blood out of the ruptured blisters as possible. Luinaur winced and stiffened, but didn't make one sound of protest during the long, painstaking process of redressing the wounds. The burns were bad, but in truth, Legolas had expected them to be more gruesome than they were. Though he was certainly no healer, he felt that, given time, Luinaur would fully heal from the self-inflicted injuries.

By the time he was done, he and the burned elf were utterly exhausted. The pain of his injuries and the soft song Legolas sang sent the injured elf into a peaceful reverie, eyes half lidded and staring into the heavens. Deciding to follow in the wise footsteps of his peaceful friend, Legolas pulled himself along side the sleeping elf, pondering their predicament until he too drifted off into the walking dreams of elven sleep.

--------------------------

The journey through his stronghold proved arduous. Collapsed ceilings and split floors made an obstacle course of what had once been an intricate network of corridors. Dust coated everything like a pulverized, gray shroud. Everywhere the injured lay moaning and crying out to him for aid. 

He did not stop.

Each step propelled him nearer to the wall and the enemy without. Each moment of travel lent advantage to his enemies and cost him endless choices. What would he do now? How much had his preoccupation cost him? He redoubled his momentum, shaking off the bloodied fingers of the injured as if they were insignificant pests. 

"My king. Please help me."

The voice was small and fell on deaf ears. He glanced at the injured elf who called to him and immediately averted his eyes. He could not look into the pain filled eyes of the injured without stopping to help and he could no more pause in his march than he could make the sun rise or stars shine. His heart ached. He was weary. So, so very weary these days. Should they survive this battle, he no longer knew if he could stay in this Middle Earth. Better to quit it now, take his family and whatever people would follow him and leave before this shadow engulfed it all. Too many had he lost in the Last Alliance. Ilú vatar only knew how many this night would cost them.

With a shudder, Thranduil cast off his introspection. Now was no time for reflections on the past or longings for the West and the promised peace of Valinor. Neither train of thought would aid him in the coming hours. He needed to focus on the here and now in order to ensure that the elves of Greenwood would survive to see the next sunrise.

The heavy sigh of relief caught in Thranduil's throat as he stepped out of the ruined interior of the keep onto the parapet. He'd believed that he'd find a reprieve for his torment once the voices of the injured no longer assailed his ears. One quick glance outward into the vacuous darkness proved that belief folly. The sky swirled and bubbled with black, low hanging clouds that stretched and reached as far south as his keen eyes could see. The air was close and heavy, laden with malice and laced with a gripping chill. Fierce thunderbolts spider webbed through the clouds, lending pulse and life to the roiling shadow above. And amidst the darkness, just before the tree line sat a vast, dark army of Valar only knew what creatures. They were hunched and gnarled, with armor thick and black, camouflaging them so well that in the shadows they appeared little more than ragged shrubbery amongst the stripped trees. Except, of course, for the pale glow of their inhuman eyes. 

Before he'd processed the enormity of the situation, Thalgaladh stood beside him, speaking of tactics and war. Thranduil stepped away from the General. Without a backward glance, he strode over to a lone, vigilant warrior.

"You." The king thundered. The warrior gawked for a moment at the approaching regent, shifted in an uncomfortable, uncertain manner, then dropped gracefully to one knee. "What is your name?"

"Galdor, my lord."

"Rise." The elf complied with as much grace as he could muster in the face of his angered lord. "Galdor, there are many injured elves within the walls of this keep. I want you to gather as many of your fellows as you need to aid them. Dig them out of the rubble and bring them to the throne room." The elf had the decency to gape only momentarily before hurrying off to carry out his king's instructions.

Thalgaladh once again claimed the king's side, watching Thranduil as he stared out into the darkness. A moment of silence stretched between the two before the king finally said, "We will not last this night."

"My lord?" The General was perplexed. He'd known Thranduil for thousands of years, and had been his second for the duration. When Thranduil was no more than a mischievous prince raising hell amongst Oropher's advisors, Thalgaladh had been right beside him. In that entire length of time, he'd never heard the stubborn elf admit defeat.

"Have you not noticed anything wrong with this view?" Thranduil made a sweeping gesture with one arm to include the expansive landscape.

Thalgaladh half-chuckled at the ridiculous question. "You mean besides the army that lies just outside our gates?" 

Ignoring the sarcasm, the king continued, "Yes, besides that." Piercing blue eyes met confused gray, and the General frowned and looked out into the darkness again. 

In truth, it was all wrong. The trees were barren, and many had collapsed under the force of the earlier storm. The air's weight dictated that it be warm and humid as a midsummer day, but contained the ferocious bite of winter. The world had become its own inverse, a veritable tableau of death and darkness. But judging by the king's rigid demeanor and arched eyebrow, Thalgaladh knew these were not the answers he sought.

"Anar does not shine, though it has long since risen. Can't you feel it?" Thranduil tilted his face toward the blackened sky and shut his eyes. By his estimation, the sun was over one hour into its progress through the heavens. Yet he could no more see the light than feel the warmth through the hovering ceiling of darkness. 

Thalgaladh was not one given to shock. Indeed, when one lived thousands of years, few novelties remained. By his estimation, he'd received more surprises in this single evening than he had over the past millennium. And this was the greatest one of all. Not so much that the shadow obscured the sunlight, but that he hadn't even noticed! How could he not have noticed such a thing? That sort of obtuseness would be their downfall.

"This encroaching shadow is strong enough and close enough to block out even the brilliance of the sun. I know not how to begin to defeat such a thing." The king continued his lament, oblivious of his friend's struggle.

What should they do? He thought on his father, and what he might do. Oropher had always been headstrong, but had enough foresight to ensure the survival of his people. What might he do tonight? Thranduil sealed his eyes and listened, hoping that the tiny voice that had plagued his mind all evening might offer him some counsel now. Inner Oropher remained stubbornly silent, and Thranduil was forced to make the decision alone. 

Strong fingers dug into the Elvenking's shoulder in an attempt to redirect his attention. The General could sense the despair welling within his king, just as he could feel it churning throughout the ranks of warriors. Many were injured and all were weary and the true battle had not yet begun. They could ill afford the king succumbing to his woe. "King Thranduil?" he inquired, using both title and name as a reminder to them both of their responsibilities this night. 

The blonde head shook fiercely and familiar cobalt eyes that never ceased to unnerve him with their intensity pinned him. "What is our status?"

Another thing that never ceased to unbalance him was the king's violent mood swings. One moment lost in sorrow, the next a fierce warrior, and barely a heartbeat to set the two apart. Thalgaladh half wondered if these swift changes were a symptom of some malady that afflicted the House of Oropher, for the former king had been prone to similar behavior. Shoving away the odd reflection, the General began running through the state of their defenses.

"Archers line the walls and we have braced the gates against attack. I have ordered stones to be piled on the top of the wall and over the gates. Seeing as how many lay strewn throughout the halls, they seemed an abundant weapon to drop on an invading army. Half of our forces now set up our defense while the other half rests. I saw no purpose in wearing all our warriors. By my reckoning we can defend the keep against an onslaught in this fashion for sometime." 

The king was shaking his head through the speech, either not listening to, or not agreeing with the General's tactics. "This will not do." The shadow that attacked them tonight had been nothing if not unpredictable. Always was it a step ahead. Simple means of defense would not deter it from its goal for long. If it sought their destruction, then it was certain to have it.

"My lord?" Thalgaladh asked again, exasperated by his king's cryptic behavior. What did he mean that this wouldn't do? 

"We cannot linger here. These halls are indefensible." Thranduil explained under his breath, his gaze still cast out far southward.

"All due respect, Lord Thranduil, but I have already explained how we can defend the walls."  


The king's face scrunched up as if he'd tasted something offensive. "The walls yes. Certainly, we can defend the stone of these mountains against whatever that is," he gestured to the hunched and twisted army. "Unfortunately, the mountains are not my concern."

__

As tempermental as his father and exasperating as his sons, Thalgaladh thought bitterly. "What exactly are you suggesting?" In truth, the silver haired elf doubted that he wanted to know exactly what the king bore in mind. He felt a creeping dread tingle through him as he braced himself for the answer.

"We must retreat." The king stated, casting a sympathetic glance to his friend. 

"Retreat?" Thalgaladh gasped. Preposterous. An army stood just beyond their walls, a cloak of shadow blanketed the land concealing Valar only knew what. His lips described words his voice never uttered as his mind grasped vaguely for some semblance of response to his king's ridiculous and rash decision. Thranduil arched an eyebrow at him as if to suggest that the time for discussion was at hand. "Retreat to where?"

The Elvenking sighed affectedly, speaking to the General as one might to the village idiot. "To our new home. If we leave all the provisions, we can travel more swiftly."

"Our new home which lies unoccupied and more than fifty leagues from here?" He was flabbergasted that his friend and king would suggest so foolhardy a thing. Even without provisions, it would take them weeks of journeying to reach the new halls. Weeks of journeying through the open with an army of darkness all around them. Thranduil's bored look only served to further inflame him. "Are you mad?"

"I'm getting there." The king deadpanned, his blue eyes flashing.

"My lord, you cannot be serious. I just told you that I believe we can defend these walls sufficiently to repel any attack, and you are suggesting that we send our injured, exhausted people out into the darkness to face this enemy?"

Thranduil nodded. "How long do you think we can hold the enemy at bay?"

"As long as necessary." The General replied, veritably snarling at his king. 

Thranduil knew his friend would force this issue, debate him bitterly on every point. _So why am I so annoyed? _he internally questioned himself. The sarcastic child within him replied, _Oh yes! Because I am King. _

A soul deep sigh released his petulance out into the night where it could be gathered in by the darkness and honed into a weapon to use against them once more. He was tired of this shadow invading their minds to turn their own fears against them. He was growing more and more irritable under its influence, and he feared it was only a matter of time before the elves turned against one another. They had to go and he could see no other path. But he also knew that his friend and second was wise, and this was a decision that merited discussion. If Thalgaladh could convince him of a less risky plan, the Elvenking would be more than happy to employ it. Thranduil was not happy about the risk of leading his people out into this unending shadow. "Okay, my friend. Say we play this your way. We stand here and defend these walls. How long until this shadow creeps in through one of the thousands of tunnels in these mountains?"

Thalgaladh ran dirty fingers over tired eyes. He was not in any mental condition to have a battle of wits with the king. But he knew that in order to get his way, he would need to convince Thranduil. "We have sealed the ventilation system…."

"Thus cutting off our fresh air supply." The king quipped, gesturing for the General to continue.

Thalgaladh could see where this was going and understood why neither Belegalad nor Legolas enjoyed debating with their father, the damnable creature. "I have ordered the back tunnels to be boarded up and guarded…."

"Cutting off a point of retreat." Thranduil observed.

The General ground his back teeth together. The fruitless nature of the argument wasn't lost on him. If anything, he was convincing himself of the king's argument, which he knew to be Thranduil's plan all along. 

Sensing victory at hand Thranduil stepped up with his own arguments. "Already has this shadow invaded our home, sending forth harbingers of its ill intent. The sanctuary that was my halls has been compromised. Not only does it manifest and attack us within, but I believe it responsible for shaking the very earth beneath us. How long before another earthquake brings the mountains down upon our heads? How long before the bugs and rats and snakes return and devour the injured where they lay trapped beneath the rubble? How long do you think we can stay here and defend against a force that attacks us from without and within?"

With a weary heart, Thalgaladh gave a small nod of concession to his king's valid point. "Some of us will have to guard the retreat from here, else that army will overtake us within the caverns of this mountain."

"Yes." Thranduil conceded with a nod. "I figure a quarter of our forces. The rest must go northwards and protect the people."

"A quarter will never be enough to hold. We must have more."

"They do not have to hold, just buy time. We can spare no more warriors for rearguard. The bulk of our forces must travel with our people to see them safely through this trek."

The idea of their people having a safe trek through the dark and haunted woods, now cloaked so thoroughly in shadow almost made the General laugh aloud. "We will lose many on this venture my king, regardless of how many warriors protect them."

The king's shoulders bowed slightly as the first indication of doubt. "I know. The thought grieves me. But how many shall perish if the mountains crumble atop our heads?"

Unable to debate the king's logic further, Thalgaladh conceded. "Very well. If we are to undertake this feat, then I will lead the forces here at the gates." Thalgaldh volunteered. But the king was already shaking his head in denial.

"Nay. I fear that responsibility is my own."

"My lord, please hear reason," he choked. This was unacceptable. The safety of the king was his charge! The task of rearguard in this undertaking was suicide, though neither of the two spoke of it. A quarter of their forces would be all that stood between the army of thousands and the people of Greenwood. How long would it be before all the rearguard was exhausted and destroyed? What would become of them if their King fell here?

Thranduil silenced him with a sharp look that softened into a small smile. "My dear friend! I would not ask any of my warriors to fight a battle which I would not fight myself. My father led the initial charge at the Black Gates knowing full well that he risked his life in doing so. Would you have me do less? Would you have me ask my people to stand here and fight knowing death is the probable outcome and then abandon them to that fate. What kind of king would that make me?" 

"Alive is the first word that comes to mind," the General grumbled, not at all happy with this course of events. He'd served Oropher faithfully for many years, and watching him fall had been as watching his own father perish. To lose his son now…. The thought sickened him.

Instead of the anger that Thalgaladh had anticipated for the sarcastic retort, Thranduil gifted him with a gentle smile. For a moment the silver haired elf thought he might have won the argument, convinced the king to let him lead the defense in his stead, but Thranduil simply said, "You will lead our people north." Thalgaladh's head shook in voiceless denial. A firm hand on his shoulder stopped the gesture as the king continued, "My family, my people Thalgaladh. You will take them and protect them. I would trust no one else with this task."

Thalgaladh wanted to scream and rage. This could not be allowed to occur. He half considered knocking the king unconscious, binding him and ordering the warriors to escort him from the halls for his own protection. Of course he knew he could never do such a thing. Thranduil was his king, and his word law. Though it would chafe the General's honor, not to mention break his heart, he would do as he was commanded.

"On my word, Thranduil, I will protect your family and your subjects with my life." The General bowed in respect and turned to leave, when strong hands gripped his shoulder and spun him around. Fingers strengthened and calloused by centuries of swordplay and archery clamped down around his forearm, and before he could return the pressure, the king drew him quickly in for a tight, brotherly hug.

"Namarië , mellon-nin." He clapped the General on his back before stepping backwards, fingers still locked around the other's arm. "If we never again meet on these shores, may the Valar have enough mercy to reunite us across the sea."

Piercing gray eyes stared into stormy blue, and in the span of a single moment Thalgaladh their entire friendship flashed before him. Their first meeting as children and the many pranks they played. The fall of Doriath, the trek to Lindon and eventual move to Greenwood. Thranduil's marriage, the birth of his sons. The fall of the mighty Oropher at the Black Gate and subsequent crowning of his reluctant, grieving son. Every sorrow and joy revisited in a heartbeat, and the silver haired General drew the king back into a hug and whispered into his ear, "We will meet again, my friend. I will not say farewell." With a dramatic whirl he was retreating to make the preparations for the flight from the mountains. Almost as an afterthought he called out, "Take care, and I will see you later."

He did not see the smile played over the king's face.

--------------------------

The weight upon his head was the first sensation to penetrate the enshrouded elf's mind. Ghostly fingers picking through his hair, weaving patterns in the platinum like his mother had done when he was a boy. Gestures of comfort, tenderness. And through the darkness he thought he heard a song. A small smile crept onto his face as he came to believe it was finally over. He had come to Mandos. A shift of eyes sent pain firing through his head, brought the world back. The cold damp floor, the pressing evil around him, and Verenaur let out a desperate sob.

__

Do not weep, brave one. 

Voices again. Always the voices. Whispering to him, taunting him. Why would they not leave him? He'd heeded their command, given himself over to that final sleep. Why must they hold him here to torment him thus? He shifted again, ribs grating against one another, and could not stifle the cry. It was not fair! This should not be. He abandoned his effort to move, once again seeking the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness. 

__

Arise! Do not follow the shadow down. Follow me.

He shifted again, stopping his ears against the incessant voice. Fever dried lips split open in the effort to speak. _Leave me be, _he wanted to shout. The words were an incomprehensible croak and he sobbed again in his fevered delirium. Feather fingers stroked his hair, and a soft song filled his mind. Peeling open his sticky, dry eyes, Verenaur searched for his visitor.

No one was there. 

A tear slid down his cheek, the heat of his fevered skin evaporating it before it could ping onto the cold damp earth, and the dying elf went to lay his head again upon the ground. He watched his fingers twitch and tremble inches from his face, saw as they balled in frustration. _I am going mad, _the dejected thought came.And then he noticed it.

He could see.

Oh, he could not see much, for a certainty. The cave was still incredibly dark. But his fingers were visible where before he'd nearly poked his own eye out in an effort to rub away the constant tears. Where before there had only been the incessant press of weighty black, now there was a new faint glow in the cavern, its source beside him. Amazed, fever dried eyes fixed on it and he was certain that he must be hallucinating. Even as he noticed it did it retreat, move slowly forward into the darkness, and quite unaccountably, he was with it, standing and moving forward. He had no memory of rising, of struggling and gasping to gain his feet. No coughing fits, no lingering taste of blood on his tongue. 

__

Perhaps I am dead, after all.

No answer this time, just the feel of warm fingers in his hand and around his broken ribs. A sweet voice hummed a familiar tune. A lullaby perhaps, but his thoughts were muzzy and unable to grasp onto a singular piece of the puzzle long enough to ascertain its proper size and shape, let alone its placement. He was moving through the gloom again, agony subsided into delirium. His feet were moving along the stony earth without thought and the weight of his body did not cling and hang on each broken piece. The confusion overwhelmed his mind so he ignored it, gave himself over to whatever magic held him in his thrall. Too tired for even thought, he gave himself over to the burning, aching and shivering as he marched (floated) through the darkness.

He could not measure distance and ceased attempting to measure time. He had no idea if it had been hours since he began his trek, or weeks. The combined effects of unending darkness and high fever warped his perceptions, giving him an acute case of vertigo. His stomach burbled from the equilibrium imbalance, and he fought regurgitation as he blearily shuffled forward.

The cavern he'd been following for an indefinite period of time spilled into a large, oblong citadel. The ceilings which had only hovered just above him soared upwards into a nearly perfect natural dome. Verenaur blinked upwards into the great above, saw tiny pinpoints of light and for a brief moment, thought he'd come outside into the night sky. He wanted to cry out, to sing in joy.

__

SSSh!

The return of the voice sent him reeling, he stepped backwards, fell backwards, closed his eyes awaiting the painful impact. When he opened his eyes again he half expected to have been unconscious for another undetermined length of time. Instead, he remained on his feet cradling his injured ribs. A soft skittering sound and a tingle on the back of his neck sent him onto all fours. Invisible fingers cupped the back of his head, cradled his broken ribs close enough to his heart that they must have felt its fear induced rhythm. There was evil here. And immediately, Verenaur knew what he'd discovered.

The fever disappeared from his mind like fog in the midmorning sun. As hot and bright as the fever burned, it was nothing compared to the infernal fire of horror that now drew his eyes back toward the domed ceiling, revealing the presumed stars for what they were.

Eyes.

Hundreds, nay, thousands of eyes, huddled together. Different eyes and he suddenly the blindness of the past hours was gone and he saw the awful truth. 

It was an ambush. There would be a massacre.


	11. A Time to Act

Forgive Me! I wanted this up on Wednesday, but life seemed to have a different opinion. My crappy Tuesday decided to have a litter, and I was stuck with a crappy week. UGH!

Enough complaints. On with the tale.

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its residents are the property of the Tolkien Regime. The original characters are products of my college years. ;)

-11-

A Time To Act

Evil lived here. She felt it keenly, fancied that she could even see the source, despite her blindness. Great wraiths perhaps, a powerful shadow. Some ancient beast summoned forth by a primordial power and set upon the unsuspecting elves of Greenwood to destroy them in one swoop.

Her grip on the broken warrior tightened as cold breath puffed over empty sockets. She could sense the malice as it honed its scythe, preparing to reap all life in a glancing blow. She could not allow it! She would not allow this warrior to be the first sacrifice upon the altar of this Necromancer, for that is what he was! Whomever attacked them, whatever their name, their magic was wholly evil. Magic of the dead besetting them with foul plague and pestilence to utterly destroy them. And this warrior would prove the tiny stone that starts the rock slide. Should he fall, all the fury of this night would plummet down upon their unsuspecting heads. She doubted not that once the slaughter began, it would not end until every last elf in this forest lay dead and cold. 

With all the strength and grace bestowed upon her she shielded him, wrapped him in her protective arms and pulled him from their sight. She was Queen of Greenwood, dubbed the Silvan princess by her late father-in-law and gifted with the strength of her birth. She would protect her people, if only for now, by preventing this one death, allowing this escape. 

"Run!" She ordered him and prayed he heard. Each was hidden from the other's sight. She hoped fervently that his ears were not equally shut against her. _You must run to my husband. You must tell the king what lay here_. She thought these things, hoped he understood. But the stunned warrior lay kneeling, gaping at a horror she could only imagine.

She felt the fear course through him as violent tremors that reverberated through her soul. She brushed his brow, felt how the fever and terror had seized him. He was no longer himself, she knew. Unnatural heat had sapped his brain of sense as pain and injury stole his strength. He would be destroyed within her grip without ever revealing his identity. This nameless, faceless elf warrior would die in the circle of her ethereal embrace, and she would have done nothing to prevent it. He would be lost in this dark pit, frightened, injured and alone. No one would ever know of his fate save the blinded Queen, who roamed formless through the bleak catacombs of her mind. Her heart forbade it! She would not allow the senseless death of this brave, lone warrior. Desperately she groped for an answer, wrapping herself tighter about the immobile, trembling elf. Calling on her latent powers, summoning forth all the magic, healing and love that coursed through her body and spirit like life blood, she pressed a single, lingering kiss upon his heated brow. The backflow of pain and weariness nearly knocked her from her incorporeal feet, and had the idea not been so ridiculous, she would have sworn she almost fell onto her ghostly butt. The Queen rose feeling drained, dragged her charge limply with her, and only had time for a fleeting hope that her efforts would be sufficient to see him to safety as she pressed him away from her. "Run, foolish elf, before they see you." 

He staggered away with renewed strength. She heard his soft footfalls beating a steady retreat, each step carrying him further from the evil within and toward the evil without. A chill swept over her as that burning eye filled her mind, but she dodged it before it fixed. It was searching for something: for her, or perhaps him. Must have sensed their presence and its premature discovery. The Evil around her swirled and skittered, agitated by the life that escaped it, smelling the blood and pain. She stood before the open cavern, willing the servants of the beast to pass it over while fighting to remain beneath notice.

She was caught in a maelstrom of madness, felt hungry jaws glance by her, snap around her, seeking the presence they could feel but not see. The Necromancer and his servants were as blind as she, and while she found that knowledge heartening and empowering, she remained afraid. Who was she to stand against this mighty enemy, blinded and weakened as she was? She had not the will of Galadriel, nor the grace of Melian. Simplicity had ever been her gift, and a great affinity for the forest and all its children.

__

I cannot stand against this.

The whirlwind around her intensified as the evil things sought their intruder. She cringed and pulled inward, fighting the urge to weep bloody tears. She could not do this! She had no magic, no power to speak of. Nothing but her own self to throw before this evil. 

They'd almost found her now. That cursed eye had almost fixed its unblinking gaze upon her once again. And when it did, the beasts around her would rend her soul to shreds.

__

Let them! 

She knew not whence the thought came. It was not a part of herself, she knew. Nor did it feet a part of the surrounding malice. Confusion tore through what remained of fear and she stood erect, uncaring of the unwavering eye or its minions. They and worse had fallen in the past, and before lesser creatures than herself.

/Curious creatures/

And a flash passed before her blind eyes. Something long passed, or perhaps something to come. Some other battle, some other hero: a tiny man with a great will. Something reminded her of the dark haired child, thick crown weighing down his head and spirit. He must be protected, she knew. They must protect the child. It nagged at her besieged mind and she packed it away for later consideration. 

The evil ebbed, its presence no more than a soaking stench. Fear made her icy, sent her chasing the elf. He was the key, she knew. He must be protected.

--------------------------

__

This is not right. The thought played itself over and over in his mind unto madness. However did Thranduil manage to talk him down from the wall? It was his station to lead the warriors into battle. After all, he was the General. It was not up to him to lead the people. That's the king's duty. He should not have agreed to his friend's ludicrous plan. Thalgaladh snorted derisively at the idea of Thranduil requiring his approval. The stubborn Elvenking did precisely as he chose, precisely when he chose. 

It had not helped matters that the king's argument was based entirely on his honor and nobility. How could one fault a leader who was willing to die fighting beside his warriors? He could no more argue against that than refuse his protection to Thranduil's family and people. Better to have rendered him unconscious than dispute him. Why should he be so surprised? His father had been equally as noble and bull-headed. _Damn him and the whole manipulative House of Oropher. _

Worry gnawed at him like a dog on a bone, but he could not cater to it. Even now were warriors sweeping through the various corridors and chambers within the keep to round up everyone, except for the injured, and send them toward the northern caves. No one was to carry more than necessary personal provisions. All medical supplies, extra weapons and any other necessary stores were being thriftily loaded onto the majority of the war horses rather than the pack animals that usually served for such purposes. The waste of the horses ruffled the General, but they could ill afford the slow pace that laden pack animals would set. Lightly packed horses would run like the wind, far outdistancing the elves, and probably reach their new home long days before the elves. The rest of the horses would carry the injured, and a few flanking warriors. 

The plan was weak and poorly thrown together, their odds of survival slim. Thalgaladh did not have high hopes for a low casualty rate for this migration. Indeed, he wondered if any of them might survive. Yet, despite his misgivings he knew Thranduil to be right. Staying put while an unknown enemy continued to press upon them with wave after relentless wave of attack was not only foolish but pointless. True, it was possible that the shadow could exhaust itself in a few hours, eventually shattering under the intense light of the sun. The remote possibility of such an outcome could not sustain enough hope to warrant entertainment, let alone enactment. He had to agree with the king's assessment. The battle had only just begun and the worst had yet to come. 

The sturdy General felt himself shiver at the prospect. Where would this night lead them? What horrors might they witness to outweigh a cloud so thick it blocks the light of the sun? 

"General Thalgaladh, we are ready." 

__

No we aren't, he thought. Unaccountably, Galdor stood beside him. That he had not heard the warrior's approach was either a testament to the young warrior's abilities, or a signal of his own distraction. He rather thought the latter to be the case, and he realized dimly that he had to correct this habit or it would prove his undoing. Still, something about this all nagged at his mind: the nature of the battle, of their foe. Unknown creatures stood at their gates readying for invasion. But why? Already had the shadow infiltrated their home. Their enemy had proven that he could conjure fell creatures, manifest them within their very halls. Why not utilize those creatures to destroy them? The whole thing left a bad taste, like that poisonous insect he'd bitten into earlier. If he'd had more time perhaps he'd pinpoint its origin, but the time for thought and discussion was past; the time of action at hand. It was ironic how a thousand years had passed with nary a thought and now he found himself pressed for time.

"Are all the elves moved toward the northern cavern?" A veritable automaton, asking questions with little care for the answer. 

"All but the injured, my lord." Thalgaladh nodded. He'd wanted to give the injured as much time to rest and heal as possible before the traumatic movement.

"And we are certain we have forgotten nothing? We can ill afford any errors."

"We have taken only essentials as you commanded. The stores of food, herbs, bandages and weapons should hold us to our new home. But if we erred, 'twas on the side of caution, my lord. Our priority is speed, you said, and we did not forget. Anything that could be left, we did so." Thalgaladh nodded as he listened, trying to dispel the unease that clutched at his bowels. His guts twisted and he found himself facing toward the south wall where his king stood waiting to defend their retreat. "All due respect, my lord," Thalgaladh redirected his attention to the warrior beside him, "the people are uneasy."

__

Aren't we all, the General thought, then castigated himself for his sarcasm. "Explain Galdor."

"They fear for the Royals, General." Thalgaladh hiked a brow at the warrior, noting the slight stiffening posture. _Good to know it works on someone. _"First Prince Belegalad went missing, and they are all aggrieved for him. As if they know some ill befell him. And by now everyone's heard that the Queen lay in some mysterious sleep."

"And how would they know such a thing?"

A small smile played on the fair face. "You know how it goes, my lord. Only two things in the world faster than a warhorse. Lightning and Gossip." 

The humor in the statement broke on Thalgaladh like waves on the shore. He had no place for humor now, no mind for it. His heart ached at their wretched state, made even more wretched now by such ill tidings, for if the people panicked, then all would be lost. He turned from Galdor, unwilling to allow the warrior to see the doubt playing so openly across his features. With a resigned sigh, he said "What else do they say?" 

"They say the Royal family of Greenwood will fall this night. That Prince Legolas is too young yet to take up the mantle of rule and the King stands on the walls facing near certain death."

The General whirled and glared, literally skewering the warrior with his ire. "Never speak such words to me! The King will not fall!" Thalgaladh hissed at the warrior, causing him to slink back. 

"Of course not, my lord." Galdor mumbled, obviously doubtful. 

Thalgaladh's anger deflated, somehow augmenting his worry. "My apologies, Galdor. You have done nothing to deserve such treatment. This shadow has wearied me beyond all memory."

Emboldened by the General's humility, the young warrior clasped the General on his uninjured arm. "We are all worried, my lord. But you spoke truly. King Thranduil is mighty. It wouldn't surprise me to find him standing upon the threshold of our new keep in the north, waiting to greet us and asking whatever took us so long."

This time the General did laugh, for the image the youth painted of the smarmy king was accurate and fitting. And, if he be honest with himself, entirely within the realm of possibility. "Thank you, my friend."

"Not at all my lord. Shall we gather the injured then?" 

"Aye. And tell the warriors to have the horses laden with supplies stand at the ready to lead the charge. They are swift and mighty. Nothing that stands before them will live to oppose us. A battalion of archers should follow to lay down a cover fire before…." 

The ground shook beneath his feet, severing word and thought. Thalgaladh grasped Galdor's shoulder, to steady both himself and the warrior. Galdor's hazel eyes widened, his mouth forming a soundless 'O' of shock. For a moment, each elf believed that the ground would cave from beneath or the ceiling from above, and Thalgaladh clutched the other elf with a bruising intensity. But the walls did not fall, nor the rocks shift. It was not another earthquake despite their initial fears and while Galdor's tensed muscles unwound under his brutal fingers, Thalgaladh's own trepidation only multiplied. For if it was not an earthquake that shook the ground, what in all levels of hell had it been?

"My lord?" Galdor questioned uncomfortably, calloused fingers prying at clutching hands. Thalgaladh shushed the warrior with a stern look, not relinquishing his vicious hold an iota. Galdor obeyed, trying not to squirm from the intense discomfort of crushing fingers, when he was thrown bodily into the wall. The air left him with a hiss rendering him dizzy and confused. He blinked and wheezed for clarity, finding it just in time to watch the General wriggle out from beneath a fat, twitching spider.

Inky black blood stained Thalgaladh's tunic and blade. He snarled in disgust at the filthy creature that lay dead at his feet, nudging it none to gently with the his toe to be certain. When it did not move, he faced the very shocked Galdor. "Are you hurt?" 

"No, my lord." Galdor replied, recovering from the shock of both the blow and discovery. 

"This is an ill omen indeed." Thalgaladh said, trying to ignore his own flagrant understatement.

"Aye, my lord. For where there is one spider in sight, you can be assured several more lurk in the shadows."

The truth of the warrior's observation could not be ignored. Their situation had just changed from grave to critical. They had to move. "We can delay no more. Head north and prepare to leave. In one half hour, whether I am there or no, begin the march northwards."

"My lord?" Galdor questioned, obviously flabbergasted by the General's statement. 

__

'My family….I would trust no one else with this task.'

"I will be there. But I must see to the Queen and Prince, and they remain amongst the injured in the throne room. If for some reason I have not returned to you, I trust you to lead them out. Stick with the plan. Warhorses lead, archers follow to lay down cover fire. Armed soldiers flank the people both on foot and horseback. I trust you Galdor. You will not fail me." With a firm handclasp as farewell, General Thalgaladh spun and charged towards the throne room while Galdor sprinted towards the northern caverns. 

-------------------------

__

Run! The voice commanded him, but he was frozen in place. His keen vision pierced the oppressive dark revealing the pestilence that lay within. 

Fat bodied spiders, larger than he'd seen in even the deepest south of Greenwood hung from a great webbing overhead. Scores of them, poised and salivating. The walls were alive with their young, crawling and starving, chewing on each other wherever they could. A veritable army of spiders nestled neatly inside their home, waiting now for some sign, some command from their master in Dol Guldur.

__

Run, foolish elf, before they see you. He felt hands drawing him upwards, shoving him through a small tunnel to his right. He hadn't noticed the tunnel, hadn't noticed anything beyondthe obscene ambush. Hadn't noticed the cessation of pain, the cooling of fever, the cool blast of fresh air upon his face. Hadn't noticed that he was outside in a familiar glen to the north east of his home until he collapsed breathless onto the cold, wet grass. 

He knelt, panting for air, felt the now familiar shifting grate of broken bones as only minor discomfort. He clutched at his ribs, felt the dampness on his palms from his sweat soaked tunic, but couldn't think of any of it. Couldn't worry about the shock he knew his body to be in. All he saw was the trap waiting to spring and he had to do something, had to tell someone. 

__

Do not stop, you cannot linger. 

Verenaur spun around searching for the owner of the voice. His freshly cleared mind recognized that it was not the same taunting voice that had willed him to die. Still its owner remained elusive, the answer just beyond his grasp. 

A hushed rustling to the south drew his attention, distracting him from his thought. The sounds were soft, no more than a mere crunching of grass underfoot. The whole of the wood had fallen into silence around him, the animals either fled or dead, the trees stripped of leaf and song, the insects dormant in the earth. No sounds in the entirety of the world save the soft movements of foot and earth, bone and sinew. And they echoed louder still for all the void.

Sweeping anxiety crushed him in its grasp, and Verenaur made way for the highest vantage point. Clever hands and feet made quick work of climbing the tree in spite of his protesting, weary body. No leaves remained on the boughs, and the tree did not sing a greeting to him. It remained as silent and inanimate the rock of the mountain, as if he were a mere man ascending its lofty heights. Swallowing down his grief, Verenaur cast his eyes about the ruined forest that only yesterday had been his lush home. The whole landscape was ravaged, as though by fire or wind, allowing him to glimpse through the leafless boughs what might otherwise have remained concealed.

The army was vast and dark, standing before their gates and sweeping its way around. The sheer size of it was overwhelming, extending far beyond what his eyes could decipher through the thick shadow. Horror seized him. They meant to storm the keep and destroy the elves in their own fortress! Verenaur imagined his friends and comrades hovered together within their walls, anticipating their swift approaching end. And yet, something didn't sit right with that theory. The shadow did much to conceal the movements of the dark army, but he thought he heard digging, saw long pikes. 

__

These are not tools of siege but of defense. 

He scanned the too near horizon for any sign of ladders, towers or catapults. Anything that might be used to scale a wall, or attack from afar. There were none to be seen. His weary mind struggled for the answer and it was suddenly horribly clear. He knew it all, he realized, all that they did not. The hail, the rats, the insects, the tricks of the shadows, all had driven the elves deep within their home, forcing them to shut themselves away from the surrounding wood; the raging storm stripped and silenced the trees, stealing the any cover or aid they might find; the earthquake which had opened up deep chasms in the earth, providing new, unexplored and unknown access throughout the keep: tunnels that the enemy within would use to sneak upon the unsuspecting elves and destroy them where they huddled together.

__

They do not want to get in. They mean to keep us from getting out.

The horrendous simplicity of the whole plan cost him his tenuous handhold and nearly sent him plummeting to the earth. Invisible hands caught him, pressing him back into the tree. He held onto the branches, clutched them for dear life as he panted around his tears. His mind groped for other possibilities, tried to reason against the answer he'd discerned. He remembered General Thalgaladh's words to him early on, that it was best when looking upon something to dismiss preconceptions lest you miss the truth, and so he tried. But each avenue his mind explored led straight back to his preconceived notion. These beasts without had no need or intention of coming in. They were a blockade and distraction. While the elves concentrated on the foe without, the one within would devour them unsuspecting.

__

Go! The soft voice whispered to him, and he obeyed. Swinging out on the branch, he dropped, catching a limb from a nearby tree. He needed to warn them somehow, get to them before this horror came to pass. A lingering glance to the south strengthened his resolve, and Verenaur ignored all protest from his broken body and flew through the treetops. None of the trees sang in joy at his presence, nor did they shun him. Occasionally would a limb he'd reached for bend down to aid him, renewing his hope that all was not yet lost. This night could still be won, if only he could reach them in time.

--------------------------

Legolas bolted upright, uncertain of what jarred him so from his comfortable reverie. The room was abuzz with confused activity. The few healers and warriors that remained behind were casting leery glances out into the halls, tense as overdrawn bows.

"The ground vibrated again." Luinaur whispered by way of explanation. The voice startled him more than it should have, more than he'd admit. Luinaur seemed to pick this up and smirked at the prince, always enjoying getting one up on him. Legolas sneered in response, which only widened his friend's smirk into a full blown grin.

Shaking his head in acquiescence, Legolas said, "Another earthquake?"

"Nay. At least, I do not think so. But the ground shook beneath us all the same."

The idea did not sit well with the prince. "My mother?" He asked apprehensively, eyes darting to the still sleeping form on the dais. 

"Asleep, if that is what we can call it." Luinaur replied, unable to keep the worry from his voice. "I checked on her a little while ago. Her condition is puzzling for its lack of any discernible cause. But her pulse is strong and her breathing even. " He shrugged his shoulders in helpless confusion and nodded toward the doorway. "They have me much more concerned with all their useless chatter."

Legolas kept his eyes on his mother for an extended moment, searching for any sign of movement in the form before glancing at the objects of Luinaur's concern. Indeed, the elves congregated by the door seemed agitated and he stood up quickly, intent on finding out the matter when his injured knee screamed in protest. With a small cry he fell back to the ground, clasping his leg above the knee in an effort to control the pain. Luinaur knelt beside him, his face a mask of concern. "What is wrong?"

Frustrated at his injured state, Legolas said, "'Tis nothing. I forgot that I hurt my knee and put too much pressure on it." The pain ebbed into a throb even as he spoke, and he loosed his strangle hold on his thigh. "I think that immobility has made it stiffer, is all. I will just have to be more careful." 

As Legolas said this he stood again, this time using his uninjured leg to buttress his weight. Luinaur rose beside him, burned fingers wrapping cautiously around Legolas's bicep: an offering of support should it prove necessary. The prince took a moment to look over his friend, smiling at the evident improvement. Luinaur's eyes were no longer dilated, hopefully a sign of reduced swelling in his brain. His blue green eyes contained no trace of the pain that had so besmirched them earlier. The burned hands were wrapped securely and no evidence of seepage could be seen on the clean, white bandages. The friend who only hours ago lay in unconscious agony was now mobile, and probably more than ready for action. "You look well," the prince said decisively. 

"Well you do not," Luinaur countered, taking inventory of Legolas's various cuts, gouges and bruises. Rather than fading, the bruises that ringed his pale throat seemed angrier, more pronounced. Such marks should have faded from blue into green already, but it seemed that rather than getting better, the injuries were worsening. Luinaur wondered idly if the cuts were poisoned somehow before shoving the notion aside. It was more likely his guilt at having abandoned his liege and friend to suffer these injuries that whispered within him. Continuing he said, "And we should wrap your knee before you move if it causes you such pain." Legolas did not argue as Luinaur obtained a long bolt of cloth and bent to wrap his leg. Even if he'd had a mind to protest, he was far too weary for it. Silently, he stood leaning against the wall as Luinaur bound the swollen joint with a quick efficiency that spoke of his many years of tending injuries in battle. The pressure was uncomfortable and the prince grimaced as Luinaur tied the knot on the wrapping. But once finished, his leg took his weight far more comfortably and his limp faded.

"Thank you." Legolas said, before strapping on his new weapons and walking over to the entranceway. Luinaur followed him without comment, eyes drifting over the room as Legolas spoke with the warriors at the door. He caught wisps of their conversation, but nothing that made any particular sense. Talk of twisted armies and hasty retreats. Luinaur's mind filtered out the world for a moment, all thoughts focusing on one point: his brother. Where was Verenaur? He had expected him to appear sometime during his nap. He had, in fact, been grateful for the respite afforded to him by his nagging brother's absence as it had given him a chance to prepare a retort to every insult and reproach that he knew Verenaur would hurl at him. But now, hours later, he began to wonder at his brother's unusual absence. With a clearer mind, Luinaur realized that he had not seen his brother since he'd propped him against the wall in the corridor, leaving him with explicit instructions to remain while he went back for Legolas. And here Legolas stood, so Verenaur must have found him. So the mystery remained as to the whereabouts of his overbearing brother.

Leaning into the prince and ignoring the fact that he was obviously interrupting a conversation, Luinaur whispered, "Where is Verenaur?"

Legolas swallowed down the sudden lump in his throat. What ever would he say? How could he possibly tell his friend that his brother had fallen into shadow and he had not taken up search for him? The guilt of that action still ate at him despite the knowledge that there had been nothing he could do. Blue eyes stung with unshed tears of grief, and he found that it took all his courage to raise them to meet his friend's steady gaze. When he did, words were superfluous for Luinaur could see the truth plainly written in the moist, azure eyes.

"Nay." The protest was breath, but it shredded through Legolas's composure. The prince stammered for an explanation, any words that might somehow ease the grief that washed over himself and his life long friend, but Luinaur stopped him with a raised hand. "I cannot hear this now."

"Spiders!" The cry destroyed the melancholia that had ensnared the two elves, and Legolas peeked his head out the doorway to see. Luinaur's hands tugged at him, trying to draw him away from the approaching danger, but he shrugged them off. Huge spiders spilled from the freshly opened cracks in the floor, pouring through the hallways like waters over falls. Hairy legs scurried along floor and ceiling, charging toward the throne room and the helplessly injured elves within.

Before any could react, Legolas had drawn, nocked and loosed three arrows into the onslaught. Each arrow struck true, dropping heavy bodies from the ceiling onto those beneath it. "Bar the doors. They mustn't get in." Legolas cried as he fired arrow after arrow into the approaching mass. Evil voices hissed their displeasure at him as he lifted a torch from its wall sconce and tossed it into the horde. The spiders screamed and scampered in an effort to avoid the flying flame, and Legolas took advantage of their distraction, slipping into the throne room and closing the doors. The heavy bar fell into its designated hooks just in time to rattle under the stress of the spiders' weight.

Legolas turned, pressing the length of his back against the doors as if to add extra support. The effort was unnecessary, he knew. Unless the spiders were equipped with battering rams, they would not break through the heavy oak doors. Luinaur stood before him with wide eyes and tense jaw. Teal eyes, warrior eyes, swept the room for any weapon. His hands were too ruined to be very effective, but he needed something if he was to fight this onslaught. His gaze lighted on the fallen tapestry, noting the heavy wooden pole that it had hung from and he quickly set about liberating it from its cloth confines. Though a staff was not his primary choice of weapon, he was more than capable of using one. When he rose from his task, Legolas stood beside him, eyes aloft. 

"We are trapped." Luinaur whispered, sorrow temporarily forgotten. He was a warrior, had been a warrior for centuries, and would do his duty this night. 

Legolas nodded an acknowledgement, before saying, "Aye. Though that is not my primary concern." Luinaur's gaze traced the path of his friend's, landing on the open ventilation ducts high on the walls of the vast chamber.

"I do not think that they can fit through there." Luinaur said, his voice less hopeful than his words.

"Perhaps, but I do not wish to take that chance." Legolas scanned the room for anything that might aid him, but he had no idea what he should do. Spiders were strong, too strong to block with simple wads of material. They were also evil and intelligent in their own rights, so it would only be a matter of time before they came through the ducts. He had not gotten a count of them, but from the looks of it there had been dozens, hundreds even. The few dozen elves in this room were injured, some grievously so, and would be incapable of defending themselves for long against so abundant and clever an enemy. An image filled Legolas's head for a moment. The whole throne room draped in an intricate webbing of spider silk, decorated with thick white cocoons of paralyzed elves. Food for evil to devour at their laughing leisure. And in the middle of it all, his mother, her beauty a source of mockery for the shadow that defeated them.

The prince shivered and grunted at the vision, felt Luinaur's hand as a reassurance on his shoulder. "We must get out of here." 

"How?" Luinaur's question, though serious and without a trace of sarcasm, ignited the prince's frustrated irritation, and he felt an overwhelming urge to punch his friend. Legolas clenched and unclenched his fists while wringing his mind for an answer. 

"I don't know," the prince's fair face was folded, his voice distressed.

A shrill cry filled the room, making elves jump and cry out in turn. Legolas had drawn a blade from its sheath before he'd completed a thought and Luinaur lifted his make shift weapon. Both warriors scanned for the source of the cry before landing on the writhing form of the Queen. 

"The child! We must protect him." The elves had formed a tentative circle about the ravening queen. Legolas nearly dropped his blade in his haste to sheathe it and get to his mother. Luinaur was a half step behind him, and yet despite both their best efforts, the Queen was still conscious and on her feet before they reached her.

"Mother!" Legolas cried, dropping onto his knees at her feet, ignoring the pain in his injured joint. He took her hands in his own, holding them in a gentle yet firm grip, as if fearing that she might any moment vanish from him again. Luinaur knelt and bowed respectfully as the Queen's vivid green eyes darted around the room. Her face was awash with feelings, none of which the young warrior could discern. Confusion perhaps, and possible rage. "The child. Do you hear me? He walks the paths, hears the call. We must stop him, protect him." The confused faces around her only agitated her further. It was only when green eyes landed on the kneeling form of her son, everything faded into quiet joy.

"Legolas," she breathed, and her big emerald eyes filled with tears. "I never thought to look upon your face again." Indeed, she'd never thought to see again, but she was not ready yet to express that thought.

Legolas kissed his mother's hand, pressed it to his face and gazed adoringly at her. "Mother, I was so worried for you. All has gone ill and I feared that I'd be left alone."

Linnaloth tugged her son up to stand before her. He was a cornucopia of bruises, a mosaic of injuries and she felt her eyes brim at the sight of him. Oh, but to see him was a blessing, so she would not weep. He was hurt, true, but he was alive and whole and standing before her, so she took him into her loving embrace and held him to her. He rested his head on her shoulder as she stroked through his fine hair. "It will be well, now."

"Nay," Legolas said, pulling back. "We are trapped. A horde of spiders lay beyond that door, and I fear it is only moments before they come through the vents. We have few weapons to fend them off. Father has ordered the keep evacuated, and I do not think that anyone will find us in time."  


Linnaloth smiled, and it was full of peace. That Thranduil had ordered an evacuation and retreat only proved that she had loved both well and wisely. Her husband was clever indeed, knowing that to lay within these halls would spell doom for the elves of Greenwood. She could practically hear his velvet voice as he whispered, 'did I not say I would take care of everything?' and she chuckled merrily. Coming back to herself, she realized that all the elves within the throne room had fear in their eyes, and Legolas had crooked his head in concerned assessment. 

"We are not trapped," she winked conspiratorially to Legolas, noting that the concern only increased. She leaned toward him, whispering for his ears only, "Always have a path of retreat, my son." She saw the spark of recognition ignite in the blue eyes, Thranduil's eyes, and she smiled again.

Walking to the back of the room, she placed her palm flat on the stone wall and whispered something. All the elves watched in silence as the wall slid open to reveal a secret passageway behind the thrones. The oohs and aahs were silenced by a dismayed cry. "Look, they come!" Legolas spun to see a swarm of tiny spiders, babies, each about the size of a hand, pouring in through the vents. They blanketed the wall, running swiftly down, some scampering across the ceiling to drop on silken threads to the floor below. 

"Quickly, inside," the Queen commanded, and all obeyed. Within moments they'd exited the throne room, a few muttered words from Linnaloth sealing the door again, crushing several bodies on the threshold. Once again Legolas found himself cast into total darkness, his traumatized mind certain that something would spring on them any moment. Luinaur clung to the back of his tunic, whispering reassurances aloud for everyone's benefit. Suddenly there was light. Linnaloth had mysteriously produced a torch, humming a contented tune as she pushed to the front of the group with Legolas and Luinaur flanking her. "Follow me, dear ones." And she marched along, singing merrily in the damp cavern to freedom. 

--------------------------

Thalgaladh's feet barely touched the ground as he skittered over broken stones and scarred rocks to reach the throne room. Something churned deep within him, driving him forward through the darkened hallways. None of this was right. The corridors stretched endlessly before him, devouring endless minutes that he could ill afford. The host of elves was to leave in a quarter hour, and at the rate of his progress, he would never join them. He would fail his king before he even began his task. That thought was the most distressing of all, and not simply because Thranduil was his king; not even because he was his dearest friend, although he was that as well. The crux of the matter was that Thalgaladh had sworn to his long dead liege, King Oropher, as he lay dying on the bloodied earth that he would serve and protect his son with his life. And until this day, Thalgaladh had kept that promise.

Abandoning Thranduil on the walls to face his death alone had been a betrayal of Oropher, but Thalgaladh believed he could live with that. But to fail Thranduil in his final request was to fail them both, to fail himself. It was a shame he did not think he could bear.

His dismal musings passed the time quicker, and Thalgaladh realized as he pulled himself from them that he was mere seconds from the throne room. He picked up his pace wanting to reach the Queen and Prince immediately. He turned the corner where cold dread slammed him to a dead stop. 

__

Oh, no. Please no.

He whispered a prayer he knew would not be answered. _Too late by far to answer it_, he thought ruefully. The hallway was swamped with the great evil spiders that had ever dwelt in the southern reaches of the forest. Never before had he seen them so far north, nor in the numbers in which they now amassed. Thalgaladh felt the last shreds of hope incinerate in the fires of his rage. 

The world tilted, turned red as he emptied his quiver into the mass of spiders. His injured arm protested each draw of the bow, pumped blood from its reopened wound. He noticed none of it in his mania. Each movement contained all the speed and precision that he'd ever possessed. Dozens fell dead before the rest even noticed the attack. Angry screams filled the corridor, and the General answered with his own, shrieking his rage as his blade screamed from its sheath. His bow lay forgotten at his feet, his quiver emptied into the spiders, and he stood waiting, broadsword at the ready, to fight these demons to his death.

The spiders charged at him, coming by floor and ceiling, and his blade tore through them two and three at a time. He moved faster than they could anticipate, his rage lending him speed, his grief granting ferocity. He stabbed and slashed, hacked and spun, whirling in deadly arcs and severing limbs from their fat, hairy bodies. The spiders howled their rage, but shrank from him even as he pressed his attack. He heard their whispers of madness, their plans of blindsiding, but he skewered them when they approached and not one got closer to him than the length of his sword.

The red haze faded from his mind as he found himself before the doors of the throne room. He cast a glance back at the corridor, saw the trail he'd blazed through chunks of flesh and limb. He'd torn through the horde with the finesse of a tornado. The few living spiders that remained kept distant from him, fearing his might. He pounded on the doors that were barred from within, heard the chatter of more spiders answer his call and deflated with defeat. 

They were lost.

He had to tell the king. Too late he saw the truth, though now all the nagging doubts presented crystal clear answers. Thranduil had been right all along about their vulnerability. The attack wasn't coming from without. With a great roar, he bolted toward the wall, leaving a gory trail in his wake. 

--------------------------

Thranduil stood on the ramparts, staring into impossible black. The army that stood a few furlongs to the south was little more than a smudge on the tree line. His keen sight could detect faint motions that thundered in his even keener hearing. The sights and sounds were easy enough to interpret if not to decipher. The army was shifting, spreading slowly outwards from the middle to flank them from east and west. But why?

"The warriors are ready, my lord." A small nod and smile were his only response. The fair being cast his gaze toward their foe and said, "They are coming."

"Let them!" The king's eyes flashed with defiance, and the warrior wore a matching look. Thranduil nodded again at the warrior, clamping tightly down on his shoulder and channeling all his strength and camaraderie into the gesture. Morthaun was his name, mighty and brave, and Thranduil was proud to have remembered it. Sorrowful blue eyes cast over the host of warriors who stood with him before their enemy. He wished that he remembered all their names. Wished fervently that he did not have to ask any of them to place themselves as a flesh and blood shield twixt the enemy and their kin. Knowing that they'd each volunteered for the post did not lessen the burden on his soul

__

It should not, my son. This time when Oropher spoke, Thranduil did not roll his eyes. No irritation blossomed at the intrusive voice. He remembered his father's words as though they'd been spoken yesterday, though more than a millennium passed. The Elvenking allowed himself the memory, indulged it even, for it was the last time he'd seen his father alive. The fear of battle had pressed upon him and he had divulged that fear to his father, despite his reluctance at appearing weak. And in a manner quite contrary to his normal behavior, Oropher listened in silence. He listened as Thranduil told him of his fears of death, his sorrows at never witnessing the birth of his youngest, his worry of losing his friends and loved ones in the upcoming battle. He remained silent as Thranduil expostulated on their battle for the greater good, defeating evil so that his family might live in a better world and how that should make this sacrifice of themselves, their lives and lives of the warriors who'd followed them to war somehow easier. And only when Thranduil fell into quiet melancholy did Oropher speak again with an uncommonly soft voice. _'It should not, my son. Do not disparage yourself for mourning and grieving what we all lose this day. Many of us shall fall because of others' senseless hatred. And each death will weigh on me, and someday you, for it was my decision as their king to lead them to this battle. And though they fight proudly, and though our fight is just, that will never lessen our grief or loss. Such is the burden of kings.'_

Thranduil blinked away the moisture and memory. Such malaise had its place, and staring out into a maneuvering enemy army was not it. His thoughts turned back to its earlier train. Why thin out the middle? The greatest point of weakness in the mountain keep was obviously the gate. Why not just attack it? Why give them the chance to group themselves, to form a plan, when the enemy clearly held the advantage?

"My lord, we await your command."

__

My command. None of it felt right to him, though he could not see another choice. Thalgaladh had gathered the remainder of the warriors and set off into the tunnels. At least, he should have by now. All Thranduil and these warriors need do is distract the foe. 

So why the hesitation? Why so dire? What was it that pressed so on his mind?

"My lord?"

Nothing about this was right, but the time for thought and talk was passed. He had to act. Should he strike the first blow in this battle at his gates, or should he wait for the enemy to make their move? Which would buy more time?

"King Thranduil?"

To strike first would divert the enemy's attention, put them on the immediate offensive. That might stop their outward spread, might stop them from noticing the host of retreating elves until it was too late. Of course, such a decision would doom the warriors that stood with him to death. He glanced around, looking at each warrior who stood poised, fearlessly awaiting his command.

He had not time for speeches, but he had to speak, to say some words to these brave few who would volunteer to die so that the rest may live. "It is my honor to fight beside you this night," he declared. "And should we die here, it will be my honor to stand before Mandos with each of you. On my command, we attack." He raised his hand, the whisper of arrows drawn from the quivers, nocked and drawn. He drew two arrows, fitted them to his bow string, drew back and held….

"My king!"

The voice tore through his concentration, his commands, and for an eternal second, Thranduil thought that he'd released his arrows into the offensive front ahead of his own command. Frustrated, heart pounding he spun to face his distraction.

"Thalgaladh?" A thousand questions ravaged his mind as he stared at the gore soaked General. "What are you doing here?"

"Thranduil, you must come." Thalgaladh panted, wiping his bloodied sword on his bloodied cloak, cleaning the gore before it dried onto the blade.

The king was aghast. Thalgaladh was supposed to be gone, leading the people to safety. Protecting his family! Rage filled Thranduil, and for a moment he considered drawing his sword against his long time friend. The arrows in his hand clattered to the ground as his fingers instinctually groped for his sword. The gesture did not go unnoticed by any. "We've been through this, Thalgaladh. What are you doing here?"

A million unasked questions, but he heard them all plainly. "This is not right," the General said, approaching the enraged king cautiously.

"You don't say?" Thranduil hissed, wrestling with his anger, fighting against the shadow's firm hold on his mind. 

"Thranduil, old friend, you must listen. You must hear me!" The voice was pleading, desperate, and every warrior on the wall lowered their weapons to watch the exchange.

The grip on his sword lessened and with it, the rage. He looked at his friend, really saw him, drenched from head to toe in foul blood, radiating regret like the sun does heat. "I am listening." The king said, his voice velvet with a steel edge. He stepped closer to the General, so close he could feel the warmth of his skin and breath along his own. "This better be good," he whispered, tone and eyes deadly.

Thalgaladh nodded at him. "The keep is besieged. The throne room taken. I did not get there in time."

"What?" The king deflated, lost his grip on the hilt of his sword. Blue eyes begged the General to explain the statement, refute its meaning.

"Don't you see?" Thalgaladh exclaimed. "It is a lie, a diversion. They stand without to distract us from the attack within." Thranduil's head was shaking in denial as the rest of him just shook. Thalgaladh placed a tentative hand on the king's shoulder, not certain if he would lose it for the presumption but willing to assume the risk. It was no less than he deserved, in his estimation. "Spiders. Dozens, nay, hundreds of spiders crawl within our halls. It is an ambush." 

Thranduil was nodding, leaning heavily into the General's touch. Anger had left him, replaced by all consuming grief. "What of everyone else?"

"They are gone. I sent Galdor to arrange the retreat, gave him explicit orders on what to do. They will make it, I think." Though he did not know. They too could have been attacked. But that host had been heavily armed and numerous. The spiders would not stand long against them.

Thranduil nodded, fighting to control his grief before the warriors. His family. The thought made his stomach twist and for a moment he thought he might just retch. His normally quick mind had solidified and an ache that started somewhere in the vicinity of his heart spread fiery tendrils around his head and squeezed. Swallowing down the rising gorge, the king whispered, "I do not know what to do."  


The silver haired elf swallowed his rising emotions at the sight of his grief-stricken friend. For Thranduil to admit weakness was no small thing. To do so with an audience was heartbreaking, for it spoke volumes about his friend's fragility. The king needed guidance and he would give it. "Forget the army. Who knows where their purpose lies. Perhaps they are no more than tricks of the shadow. Come with me to break down the doors to the throne room." Thranduil was shaking a denial but Thalgaladh was firm, "Yes. Forget this folly. They can do us no harm." _What is left to take?, _he thought, leaving that thought unsaid. "They still have to surmount the wall. We will light fires behind us, burn everything as we go. We will see what lay in the throne room and then follow our people north. They will need us should this evil give chase."

Thranduil squared his shoulders and met his friend's gray eyes. The silver haired warrior saw no trace of the grief that only moments before threatened to engulf his king, only steely determination. With a small nod, the Elvenking barked out to the warriors, "Men, follow me."


	12. Creeping Death

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its residents are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien. No profit is being made from this tale as is evident by my empty bank accounts.

Thanks again to those that have kept up with the encouragements, and all those who might be silently reading along. I hope you are enjoying the story. 

-12-

Creeping Death

His body was failing him, he knew. Whatever grace the Valar bestowed upon him was nearly spent. His ribs ached with a new ferocity as they grated. The fever would claim him soon. Time was running short. With tremendous effort did he fly through the trees, running along the highest branches, swinging to lower when instinct advised. He no longer believed that he would survive the night. Too long had serious injuries remained untended. Too hot did the fever rage through his damaged body. But it was not for himself that he pushed onward. The survival of the elves of Greenwood very possibly rested in his hands. He alone had seen the creatures' lair. He alone had watched as the black army dug trenches that would later serve as graves if the elves attacked. 

He had debated his course of action for moments only. He wanted only to reach the king, to tell him everything he'd seen and thought before his body folded in upon itself and gave up the struggle for breath. The most direct route would of course be through the great gates on the southern face of the mountain, which, due to the very large army surrounding it, was quite apparently not an option. All the northern exits had been sealed. He debated heading back into the tunnel through which he'd escaped, but horror at the thought of wandering blind through such evil again quickly had him abandon the notion. 

Confused and weary beyond all imagination sent the elf north and away from the enemy force. He would find a way to breech the keep, even if he had to surmount the jagged cliffs to do so. And so he moved with speed and stealth that belied his hurts and did justice to his heritage. When the trees thinned and the soil grew rocky, he jumped from aloft and sprinted across the ground. As the rocks grew thicker, larger, closer to one another, piled high upon each other, he scaled them like mighty stairs, until he could see the valley beyond. 

His chest burned and throbbed, the soft tissues surrounding the broken bones in his rib cage obviously torn and frayed beyond all reckoning. His breath came in shallow gusts now and he could hear a slow whistle with each exhalation. He probably punctured something. The metallic taste in the back of his throat grew stronger, and each small cough was wet and warm. Verenaur wiped his lips, his hand sticky with blood. He was not certain how much further he could go. His vision grew blurry now, his mind sluggish. His body was afire, and he shivered constantly in the chill, heavy air.

Blinking furiously at a fixed point at his feet, Verenaur tried to reassert some control over his body. He needed to move on. He lifted his foot to move on when some unknown thing froze him in place. He could not tell why he paused mid-step. He stretched out with all his senses, listening, smelling and staring into the innocuous valley below. Nothing stirred that he could see. Nothing breathed that he could hear. Perhaps the shadow had tricked him again, or the fever had gripped him too tightly. Perhaps his body could go no further.

The thought seemed to sap the last shred of energy from Verenaur and he sat heavily upon the cliff. Breath left his body in a moist hiss as his ribs shifted. The cold of the stone beneath him seeped through the light fabric of his leggings and sent a jolting shiver through his fever torn frame. With a quick glance about, Verenaur decided that here was as good a place as any to lay down for his final rest. He'd fought as long as he could against his inevitable death. Sorrow filled him to bursting, and his eyes leaked the consequences. A leaden hand wiped carelessly at the stray tear then hovered inches from his face as he examined the moisture. So strange a thing, a tear. No rhyme or reason for what should cause them. Thousands of thousands of tears had fallen throughout the ages, each with its own designated purpose. Tears of pain, joy, and sorrow. Probably dozens of reasons, emotions unnamed, pains unuttered, had wrung tears from countless eyes. And to what purpose did this straggler make its trek? What had caused this traitorous thing to pour forth unbidden? Certainly not sorrow for himself. He did not lament his passing. Perhaps he might have hours ago, but that was before he was so wearied. His body begged rest and he could deny it no longer. 

Verenaur shifted onto his back to stare into the swirling madness above. No stars to sing to him, to guide him on this final journey. His chest felt constricted, like he'd strapped his quiver too tightly, and this time when the air left his lungs, it did so on a sob. Tiny nerve endings in his face traced the progress of another tear from the corner of his eye down the side of his face, over the delicate curve and taper of his ear before it disappeared from his notice, no doubt falling into the tangled hair beneath. So quickly they vanish. So fleeting.

He turned his head away from the empty sky and gazed out onto the valley below. The sideways perspective calmed him some, the pain receded from him like the tide from the shore, and his breaths came more shallow and less soaked. He faced northeast he knew, and that was both comfort and heartache, for to the northeast lay their new home which he would now never see. He fervently wished that his brother might see it, might dwell there happily within the haven that King Thranduil had carved for them. The thought brought him great peace, and the dying elf smiled.

The shivers ceased despite the cold leaching into his broken body. The dried tear track left a vague itch in its wake, and Verenaur wished to scratch it. Though he tried, his body would not heed his command. A finger might have twitched, but then that might have been a passing fancy of a fevered brain. The body that had served his whims for more than a thousand years now ignored his calls, remained as immobile as the mountains beneath it. His breath faded from him as he cast his gaze outward, focus fraying at the edges until all that remained in the world was his blood filled lungs and a tiny shrub on the valley floor. 

--------------------------

The merry tune that enveloped them all was a stark contrast to the cold, dreary corridor through which they now trudged, yet there was no denying its propriety. Their situation was grave of a certainty. The vast majority of their party was injured, some gravely so, and those that were not were weary from aiding the injured with little or no rest since the start of the attack. Few of them were armed, and even less were trained properly in the arts of war. They had to set a deliberately slow pace as injured elves supported one another in the quest for life and freedom. 

Yet hope had been restored to them. Their queen had awoken, had come to them strong in their time of need and saved them from a certain and horrible death. She'd cast off the shadow like a dirty tunic and stood tall and beautiful and impossibly whole in the wake of such evil. Yet whole she remained. Perhaps a bit more than herself, for Legolas thought her more fair now than before. Even now did she lead their charge and song, illuminating their path with her torch and her being.

Legolas assessed his mother from the corner of his eye. Her raving confusion upon waking could have been just that. Yet the urgency of her pleas tugged at his mind. In dulcet tones he asked, "What child, mother?"

The question dragged her from the reverie of her song, immersing her in confusion. It took a moment for her to comprehend the question and another to formulate the response. What child, indeed? She still was not certain why those ancient steel blue, deep set eyes troubled her. Never had she laid eyes upon the dark haired, fair eyed youth, yet visions of him haunted her. "I know not. Only that in him lies great hope." She turned a serious gaze upon her son and said, "Never have I met him, but well do I know him. His steely eyes are brave and sure, but a great uncertainty surrounds him. We must protect him." In the ensuing silence, Legolas wondered how they should protect one they did not know. The thought was idle and easily bypassed by thoughts of one he did not protect. 

Ever intuitive, the queen said, "Something presses heavily upon you my son. It is more, I think, than this evil." Legolas began a denial before rethinking it and falling silent. He had no wish to lie to his mother. Nor did he wish to speak of the unbearable guilt that weighed on him. Now that they had left the keep, his abandonment was complete, his betrayal absolute. Verenaur had fallen into shadow and he'd left him behind. The prince's head hung low with shame. 

"I left him behind."

Linnaloth turned quizzical green eyes upon him. "Who, dearest?"

"Verenaur." Legolas felt more than saw Luinaur stiffen, but the other elf said nothing. "The ground opened beneath us and we fell. I climbed back out of the chasm. Verenaur did not."

The queen smiled, and Legolas frowned in response. She hadn't known him blinded as she was, but her heart held little doubt that the elf that she'd guided from the darkness was her son's lost friend. With her free hand she took Luinaur's and guided him to her side, between herself and her son and whispered in his ear, "Be at peace, young one. Your brother yet lives."

The makeshift staff that Luinaur had been carrying clattered against the rocky ground as the young elf gaped at the Queen. The entire procession had ceased with the clatter, all attention riveted to the conversation at the head of the procession. Luinaur and Legolas both stared at the Queen, each running through the list of questions in their minds before hurling them at her in a barrage. She held up her hand in a gesture for silence, and both elves quieted themselves. "When the darkness took me, I was neither sleeping nor unconscious. I walked in reverie, though I did not know it at the time. In truth, I'd thought myself dead, trapped in a nightmare. And I suppose I was, in a fashion. But it was not mine alone." 

Luinaur's eyes were huge as he listened and he twisted his burned hands together impatiently. Legolas took the burned appendages in hand before his friend could damage himself further, and turned his attention back toward his mother.

"On my sad, lonely path, I met with your brother, though I did not know him at the time. We were of the same mind; his heart was heavy and mind weary. We two were both blind to each other and the world about us, and I think we both were ready to succumb to our woes. But still did I pick him up from the floor and drive him forwards until we came out into the night air." Linnaloth purposely abridged the story, trimming away the more disturbing aspects. Mithrandir had always taught them that the darkness was no place for the telling of evil tales, and the Queen of Greenwood was not one to dismiss great wisdom from great sources. The stories would keep, and probably grow more grand and less horrifying in the retelling. For now they still chilled her blood. "Last I left him up a tree, and then I was myself again and you know the rest."

"This is glad news indeed!" Luinaur cried, tightening his grip on the prince's hands. He beamed at Legolas. "I must admit that I feared the worst for my poor, lost brother. In my worry and grief, I fear I may have wounded you Legolas."

"Nay, mellon," Legolas protested.

"No, I must speak this to you." The earnest tone and expression halted the prince's protestations. Luinaur was never in earnest, for that was almost entirely Verenaur's domain. "Never did, nor would I blame you for my brother's fate. The Shadow that attacks us this night is responsible. Fate is responsible. Not you, my prince."

"'twas I that left him." Legolas choked, hiding his face.

"What could you have done? Could you have found him?"

"I did not even try." Shame sharpened every word, honing them so they pierced Luinaur's heart.

"We left you behind tonight." The burned elf reminded him, touching his bandaged forehead to emphasize the point.

"I told you to do so," the prince defended, not wishing to assuage someone else's guilt while still shouldering his own.

"Do you believe that my brother would have you kill yourself in search of him? What purpose would throwing yourself into a deep pit serve? Other than perhaps advancing the cause of the shadow." Luinaur held the prince's hands firmly, waiting for a response. When the upper lip curved upwards in a sideways smirk, the platinum haired elf knew he'd gotten it.

"Since when do you speak logic? That is always your brother's tactic."

Luinaur sighed theatrically, stooping to reclaim his shoddy weapon. "Well, let us do our best to reclaim him so he can go back to lecturing you while I make faces behind his back." The two friends chuckled merrily while the queen resumed both her singing and procession. The other elves had followed the exchange with their eyes and the song with their hearts as they limped slowly down the passage.

--------------------------

Thranduil had not thought much on his expectations when he reached the throne room. In truth, thought had not been easy at all. Failure pressed upon him, filled him with great shame. He had failed. His people were leaderless now, undertaking the great pilgrimage alone. That his warriors were well trained was of little consequence to the Elvenking. He was not there to lead them, nor was his family or his most trusted second. They were abandoned. 

His family. Greater, more personal shame swelled in Thranduil. His eldest son had been missing for weeks, and the new affront on their home only dimmed Thranduil's hopes that he would ever see Belegalad again. His beloved wife had fallen under some evil spell, and he'd abandoned her to the care of his youngest. He sent them to that throne room believing they would be safest there. Had he kept Legolas by his side….

"Do not do this to yourself, my lord. 'twas neither your fault nor doing." _It was mine, _Thalgaladh left unsaid, but the king tilted his head at him as though he'd heard the words anyway. A deep sigh was the General's only response as the two approached the Throne room. The heat of the fires that the warriors set behind them warmed their backs as the chilling sight of the final corridor filled their vision.

"Valar." The soft exclamation came from just behind them as one of the warriors caught sight of the carnage strewn hallway. 

__

My sentiments exactly, Thranduil thought, though he remained silent. He turned wide, blue eyes upon the General noting the detached look that arranged the fair features. That his friend was capable of such acts was not surprising to him. He'd fought beside Thalgaladh in many battles, had witnessed first hand his abilities. That his friend had thrown himself into such a fray with no care for his own life did not shock the king. It simply annoyed him. 

"Nice work." Thranduil commented, voice pitched for the General's ears alone. A small smirk broke the placid look for a moment.

The king marched to the doors, thumping hard upon them, hearing the chatter of evil spiders beyond. "Would you like us to break it in, my lord," the General asked cautiously. Thalgaladh saw the dread pass over and through the king in a heartbeat just before he slipped a long, thin dagger from some concealed sheath on his person. With an arched brow, Thalgaladh watched as the Elvenking worked the dagger between the wooden doors with all the expertise of a practiced burglar. A swift movement of wrist, and Thalgaladh heard the heavy iron bar crash to the ground on the other side of the doors. The king winked at him, gave him an impish grin before schooling his features back into a kingly guise. 

"On my command," Thranduil thundered, and the warriors fell in behind him with bows, swords and torches at the ready. 

Thalgaladh stared hard at him for another moment, unblinking, before drawing his sword from its sheath. Thranduil, it seemed, would always be full of surprises. Without a signal between them, the King and General threw open the doors to the room, flaming arrows flying past them to clear their path. The thin dagger had vanished again, replaced by the king's mighty sword, but the sight before them shocked them all into stillness.

Nothing. 

There was nothing in the room, save a heavy draping of spider silk. The king scanned the floor and walls, then finally the ceiling only to witness a few infant spiders skittering through the high shafts above. The General stood as thoroughly confused as he'd been when he'd stared into the empty corridor outside the Royal Chambers and turned that confusion toward the king.

"Where is everyone?" The absence of spiders struck him as odd, but the surprise was indeed pleasant. It was the absence of all the elves that had occupied this room that worried him. Perhaps they had disobeyed and headed toward the northern caves before his command? While irritating, the thought was pleasing to him. For if the elves were not here, then they might yet be safe. "Do you think they escaped before the attack?"

The blue eyes that peered back at him danced merrily, for if his suspicions were correct then it boded well indeed for all. "Nay, not before."

"Then where are they?" The General asked, casting darting glances around the room and at each warrior present. They all looked around in confusion, unvoiced questions lingering on their faces. The king's smile remained fixed as he strode to the rear most wall, whispered to it, and watched it slide aside. The way was littered and smeared with pieces of crushed spider and Thranduil exhaled a relief. 

Thalgaladh gasped at the revelation of the secret passageway. In all his years of service, he'd had no idea that such a path existed. He stepped besides the king to the astonished 'oohs' and 'aahs' of the warriors, and said, "Why did you never tell me?"

Thranduil's smile was tempered slightly by a creeping sadness. "I'm sorry, my friend. Only Linna, Belegalad and myself know of this pathway. It is a matter of safety and precaution."

The General tried not to bristle under the implications of such a statement. He knew that the king trusted him with his life and more importantly, the lives of his family. Still, it stung that Thranduil could have kept such a thing from him. Stuffing away the injury of it all, Thalgaladh asked, "Not Legolas?"

Thranduil shook his head once. "I had never told him, though I meant to. He was so rarely a fixture in this room that it never occurred to me to tell him of it." The General heard the self deprecation in the king's tone and laid a hand on his shoulder. 

"Then this means that the queen is conscious once again. That is good news, indeed." He declared, hoping to steer the king from his dark thoughts. 

Thranduil smiled at him again, bright as the sun itself. "Aye. Let us hurry after them. They can't be far ahead."

-----------------------

The time for action was near, it knew, though how it came by such knowledge remained hidden. It did not dwell on the thought as it flexed limbs stiff with inactivity. That it had the knowledge was its only concern. A deep sniff and twitch, and it settled again, fingers and claws twitching with anticipation. In the swirling tempest of its mind only one image, one thought, one word shone brightly. Greenleaf.

-----------------------

Movement. Rustling. The ghost of wind through leaves perhaps, but unfocused blue green eyes blinked. He had not felt the wind. Couldn't feel anything to be precise. His body had melted into the earth leaving only a small spark of consciousness behind. That consciousness detected something and blinked again, squinting into the darkness for any sign of anything. 

The shrub that filled his vision remained still and unmolested and he stared at it harder, drawing more of himself back to concentrate on the image before him. A twinkle beyond the shrub caught his waning attention, brought it back full and clear as possible and his eyes locked onto the source of his disturbance.

A figure sat curled up, folded down into the grass, blending near flawlessly into the shrubbery in which it hid. Had it not been for the subtle movement, a glint of animal eye perhaps, he never would have noticed its presence. Were he more himself, he might have taken a moment to chastise himself for such a blatant oversight. But his body was no longer at his disposal, and now he saw it clear and live and his mind fixed its identity before he'd thought to wonder. He'd seen this before, though perhaps not exactly in this form. Sometimes it was a hawk, sometimes a wolf. A squatting silent stalker, a predator awaiting its prey and the opportune moment in which to strike. This creature, folded so neatly in half in such stillness stirred enough fear into Verenaur to bring him back to his body. Numb fingers twitched, felt the cold stone beneath them. Toes wiggled in their soft shoes. His arms tightened, abdominal muscles attempting to pull him upright. His ribs flared hot and bright, reminding him of his weakened state, and he almost gave in to unconsciousness again. 

It was a song that sliced through the heavy fog in his mind. Deceptively merry voices, filled with pain and fear, murmured one of his favorite songs. It was a tune the Queen favored, one that she would sing to all the young elves to quell their fears, stanch their pains, and ever had he loved it and her. The sound came up through the rocks beneath him, as if the mountains themselves were lulling him, comforting him. Had it been five minutes earlier, Verenaur might have believed that to be the answer. Now, despite the delirium that high fever and intense pain threatened, he knew it was not the mountains that sang, prayed that illness had weakened his mind beyond all repair. His hopes died when the silent predator unfurled itself, stood tall and thin, a sapling amongst bushes. Verenaur knew that it was no conjuration of his mind. It heard it too. Its prey had arrived.

__

Elbereth, give me strength, he prayed as he pushed himself upright. The slow movement went unnoticed by the stalker in the shrubs, its sharp eyes too focused on some point in the mountain face below him. His pain dulled mind fought for a solution. Had he bow and arrow, he might have been able to kill the thing. As he stood now, alone and injured, awaiting the spring of the trap, Verenaur could think of nothing.

The voices were close now. No more were they mere echoes through rock. They sounded throughout the valley, soft and sweet, and Verenaur listened for the forest's answer. Silence was the only response to the song, and perhaps a deep, welling sadness. Nothing that would save the elves. Nothing they'd notice until they'd taken their final, fatal steps.

--------------------------

Linnaloth slowed at the mouth of the cave, bringing all the elves to a stop. Something was off, though she sensed nothing foreign without. One of the injured elves caught a whiff of fresh air, cried out and bolted past the three leaders of the trek.

"Nay wait!" Linnaloth cried, but it was too late. The elf was out into the night and disappearing into the darkness. She half expected him to be cut down as soon as he stepped without. When nothing happened, she felt her foolishness keenly. The other elves were staring at her warily, even her son and his friend exchanged puzzled looks. She shrugged at them, hoping the gesture enough explanation for the others. "I simply wished for caution." 

Legolas tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, assessing his mother, before nodding. "Then I shall go out first." _Well, second anyway. _

"Not alone." Luinaur declared, and moved beside the prince, staff clutched tightly in his ruined hands. The two elves stepped outside into the night, each filled with wonder and horror in turn: wonder at the kiss of the free air on their skin, horror at the heavy shadow that lay across their land. The night was still and steady, and the two elves moved cautiously out into the valley. Each took stock, assessed their surroundings, before signaling to the other elves to come forward. 

Gratefully, slowly, they stepped out and moved through the valley, each casting wonderfully horrified glances around. The Queen still led them, singing a light tune as she began their march out of the caves and into the dark air.

--------------------------

Verenaur heard the dismayed cry a second before the first elf came into his sight, darting forth in a limping sprint into the valley. He was amazed that the waiting predator had not immediately killed the hobbled elf. Hoping to avoid that outcome, Verenaur opened his mouth to cry out a warning, gasped and choked instead on his own blood, and could only watch in mute horror as the predator stepped into the elf's path and grasped him. The elf fell dead in silence, his murderer slipping back into the brush to melt flawlessly into the background. 

Verenaur moaned in dismay, rolling onto his knees in an effort to do something, anything, other than watch the skillful and silent murders of these elves. He rose slowly, gasping and wheezing into his cupped hands, catching the warm spray of blood. He heard voices, saw the tops of two heads just beyond the outcropping he stood upon and tried to cry out again. His parched throat croaked, bleeding lungs shuddering under the effort and sending a painful convulsion through his burning, broken body. He fell to his knees on the cliff, spit a mouthful of blood onto the rock below and panted.

The elves were exiting the hidden cavern now, moving slow and stiff and following the very familiar figure of the Queen. Tears poured from his eyes as he watched the elves follow her in a line, the initial two taking rearguard. Now that they were moving and he could see them clearly, Verenaur felt the entirety of his world tilt. 

"Nay." The word was wet breath, punctuated by a spasmodic diaphragm and intense coughing fit. His arms weakened and nearly gave out beneath him, but he fought through it, inhaled deeply and bellowed, "NAY!"

-----------------------------

Legolas's head snapped around, eyes seeking the source of the yell. He'd been certain that the cave had been emptied. Luinaur scanned the valley before them as he searched behind. He saw nothing out of place, no one that could have produced the yell whose echoes still rebounded off the towering mountains. 

"What do you see, Legolas?"

"Nothing," he replied, which upped his hesitant worry a notch. The other elves moved on, heedless of the noise, following the soft singing of his mother. 

A soft snap and whisper was all the warning that they had before chaos rained upon them in the form of black arrows. The elf nearest his mother fell with an arrow through the throat, and the Queen dropped to her knees beside him in a futile attempt at aid. The move saved her from his fate as another arrow whizzed past her head, stirring the strawberry kissed hairs before thudding into the tree nearest her.

Legolas had an arrow nocked as he scanned for any target. "Do you see them?" He asked Luinaur as he peered into the inky woods. 

"Nay." Luinaur responded from behind the cover of a tree, swearing when another volley of arrows flew into the mass of unprotected elves. He longed for a more useful weapon. Staffs could do well enough in hand to hand combat, but against projectile weapons and distant, hidden enemies, they were utterly useless. He swore at his futility, annoyed that the time for battle had come and he could not participate.

Legolas fired blind in the direction the arrows had come from, thought he might have heard a small grunt answer his shot. _As an elf, the trees will aid you. _Legolas heard his father's seemingly prophetic words resonate through his confused mind and he yelled out, "To the trees!" The elves left alive and standing did their best to obey, pulling themselves up into the branches and scattering. Legolas fired again and again, trying to give as much cover as possible, buy as much time as he could for his people to reach safety. Luinaur stood behind the tree, doing his best to avoid arrows while waiting for the prince. "Go!" Legolas shouted, but the other elf did not move. "Luinaur, go!"

"I'll not leave your side," came the indignant reply and Legolas only nodded. There was no point in, and no time for debate. 

"Then we go together." Legolas stowed his bow and leapt into the tree, Luinaur right behind him. He ascended with all the speed and grace of his people, and began making his way through the high branches. A soft dismayed cry behind him spun him around in time to see Luinaur dragged down to the ground by a lithe, gray creature. "Luinaur!"

Legolas lowered himself, descending the tree as rapidly as his arms, injured knee and gravity would allow when something hit him with the force of a battering ram. His arm went numb, fingers lost their solid grip, and he was falling. Sharp branches cut and lashed him as he whipped by them at dizzying speed, and the ground smacked him hard along the length of his back. 

Stars exploded across the black sky above as he gasped for air. His shoulder ached and burned and he tried to focus his blurry eyes on the source. He saw it rising from his arm like a proud elm with a canopy of black feathers. Shaking fingers closed around the angry shaft of the arrow, caught somewhere between the want to leave it and the need to remove it. Both options were lost to him when a gray skinned creature climbed atop him, feral eyes glistening in the darkness. It sat upon him for a long moment, tilted its head as if pondering him. Spindly fingers pressed around the shaft of the arrow, and Legolas cried out. The pressure was firm, and while it did not relent, neither did it increase. It was the pressure of one stanching blood flow, perhaps. Healing pain, though it made little difference to the injured prince. Legolas panted wildly, tensed as if to move, when its face folded up into a hideous mask. The prince did not know what to do. He wiggled, trying to move out from beneath the creature seated astride him. Its eyes opened and a crooked smile split its face as it closed its fingers around the prince's vulnerable throat. 

"GreenLeaf" it rasped, voice and eyes filled with loathing. Strong, claw tipped fingers dug into the soft skin, wringing and squeezing with all its strength.

Legolas stared at the creature above him with shock and horror. _No! _He knew it now. This had been his attacker in the darkness. Eyes clouded with hatred hovered inches from his own and he could see. He knew those eyes more surely than he knew his own, yellowed and animalistic as they were. He wrapped his fingers around the wrists that choked him, trying to pry them from his neck. He thrashed as best he could but the world was fading, darkness collapsing around him. One word danced through him, died on his lips for its lack of air. His mouth formed the word his voice could not and it was the last thing he knew before darkness took him.

--------------------------

He could not grasp the horror unfolding before him. Volleys of arrows flew from the surrounding woods where unnoticed enemies lay in wait. The moment that all the elves were in the valley, the arrows flew, cutting down elves where they stood. He watched as his brother and his prince took cover, saw Legolas fire arrows rapidly and blindly into the trees. Two of the four shots struck true, taking down unseen enemies. Verenaur climbed to his feet again ignoring the screech of his ribs and the throb of his head.

"To the trees!" the prince ordered, and Verenaur watched as the elves scattered to obey. The prince continued offering cover fire, his brother only three paces away. With all the speed that his broken body could muster, he descended the cliff. Leaping was out of the question as it might just send a rib fragment into his heart and kill him instantly. He could not afford to die yet, not before he did something to aid those he loved. 

He lowered himself down with careful speed, heard Legolas shout for his brother to go and knew what his brother would say before he spoke. The refusal sparked a simultaneous pride and anger in Verenaur. _He never does as he is told, _the older elf snarled to himself. 

"Luinaur." The anguish in the prince's voice tightened Verenaur's already pained chest. The fevered elf spun so quickly that he almost lost his precarious balance. He righted himself, saw a great predator pounce on his brother and jumped down to the lower ledge. Pain rattled his teeth and Verenaur almost vomited from it. He swallowed heavily and looked out again at the battle he was all too slowly approaching. 

The crouching predator, the only one he'd spotted, had a bow drawn in its hands. It was sighted on its target, locked and ready when the queen flung herself full force into it. The arrow flew but the fevered elf did not track its progress, he was too busy watching another foul beast pummel his brother. 

With the last bit of strength in his body, Verenaur climbed over the final ledge and dropped to the loamy earth. Without thought or care for himself, he charged at the creature that had his brother pinned to the ground. 

--------------------------

She'd led them out into the darkness to deliver them from death, despite the pervading sense of foreboding. Singing, she led them, foolishly believing that she'd somehow won the day. When the first twang of a released bowstring reached her ears, she understood her folly. The shadow had fixed its eye upon them, had toyed with them and batted at them as a cat does with an injured mouse. Herded them and drove them out into this field to hurl its final weapon at them. The Necromancer had swung his scythe, and the poor elf beside her fell with an arrow through his throat. She dropped to her knees, felt something tug at her hair, but paid no heed. The anonymous elf who'd sought solace in his queen gurgled on his final breath, drowned in his own blood without the courtesy of a final word. Shaking fingers closed the vacant eyes for both their benefits, for she could no more look at their dead glaze than they should have to stare into the infinite nothingness above.

Moments only had passed, she knew when she looked around. Elves were scattering and she could only watch as they did. She heard Legolas shout, "To the trees!" and watched as his subjects sought to obey him. An elf limped to her, stammered out "my queen," before she dragged him to the ground. The arrow flew past him, grazing his back so close that it snagged his tunic. 

"Stay down, precious one, else they will kill you." The elf looked at her with equal parts relief and horror. He opened his mouth to speak but white fingers silenced him. "Quickly, now. To the trees." Brown eyes begged her to come but she looked away, heard her son yell out to his friend.

Then she saw it. Tall, gangly and full of deadly intent. Its yellow eyes were fixed on a single point high above their heads and she followed its gaze, noted its target as it nocked an arrow and drew. 

She unfurled like a leaf, sprung like a rabbit and hurled herself at the murderer with the might of a lion. "Do not touch him!" she commanded.

The creature turned enraged yellow eyes to her and she gasped. Faster than thought it grabbed her, dragged her against it. She shuddered at the cold flesh and the realization of her earlier vision. For a foolish moment she thought it would blind her, rip her eyes from their sockets with vicious claws. Slowly, comprehension seeped through the fear. She knew these arms, had been within their circle before. The thought brought her comfort as cold fingers cupped her chin. She said a brief prayer as the hands combed through her hair, whispered "my son," as the fingers clenched. Her green eyes fell upon the open mouth of the cave and she smiled, breathed "farewell, my love" as the grip tightened and wrenched.

The cave vanished from her vision, replaced by the image of her fallen son. Her Greenleaf, bleeding upon the earth. Sorrow flitted over and through her as the sound of snapping bone filled the world. Bright pain followed by a tingling numbness, and regret, fear, worry and life were all knocked from her as she was dropped upon the wet earth. 

--------------------------

"I'll not leave your side," he'd yelled, and he hadn't meant to do. He'd waited until Legolas had stowed his bow to drop the pathetic excuse for a weapon that he'd been carrying in order to ease himself into the tree. The strength of the creature that grasped him about the waist stunned him and he hit the ground with a hard thud. He 'oofed' out the air in him, felt his ribs strain with the gasp for breath when the creature that attacked him kicked him full in the gut. His still healing body protested the abuse and he curled in on himself to prevent further injury.

The creature above him slashed at him with claws, rending cloth and flesh in its violent attack. Luinaur kicked at it, swiping its legs from beneath it and regained his footing, scanning for his abandoned weapon. The creature bounced up and attacked again with dizzying speed. Claws slashed his face, nicked the corner of his eye sending a stream of tears into the fresh wound. The injured eye shut despite his commands, turning the entirety of his left side into a blind spot. Something hard and heavy crashed into his temple, putting his brain into a flat spin. He barely registered that he'd hit the ground again before his attacker was upon him with tooth and nail.

Luinaur did his best to block the raining blows, but his injured hands and refreshed head wound weakened him substantially. Another vicious blow to his throat tore more flesh open, spilling hot sticky blood onto the ground beneath him. He punched at the creature, aiming for the exposed throat and succeeded only in dealing a glancing blow across the hard bone of its chin. Riled, it raised clawed hands to slash again and Luinaur winced and waited.

The blow never came. The weight vanished from him as suddenly as it had pounced and he heard the creature thud to the ground beside him. He cracked open one eye in time to see his brother drop his lost staff, kneel beside him, tear a piece of his tunic off and press it to the heavily bleeding neck wound.

"Thank the Valar!" Verenaur whispered to his brother's peeking eye. "Are you alright?"

Luinaur sighed and allowed his brother to help him to his feet. "Well met brother." Luinaur had never been quite so happy to see anyone in the entirety of his life. Despite the Queen's story from earlier, he hadn't allowed himself the luxury of believing the tale lest it prove false. He was not certain he could survive the grief. 

"Well met indeed," Verenaur replied, before crashing to his knees. Luinaur caught him before he landed face first in the dirt, cried out when he felt his brother's heated skin. 

"Verenaur!" He gasped, unable to reconcile the twitching, fevered form in his arms with the unflappable warrior he knew his brother to be. "Awaken," Luinaur commanded, cradling his brother in his lap and smoothing his hair away from his sweat dampened face. The elf in his arms did not stir, save for the occasional rasping breath. Verenaur was unconscious, blue-green eyes sealed to the world, face distended in pain. 

--------------------------

The first one had been a treat for it, its master said. Do it right, and there would be more. Do it wrong, there would be pain. Snaga didn't like pain. So it waited until it could hear the rushed thud of a heart, taste the salt of skin on the air, smell the fear so close it filled its mind. It waited until so soft footfalls were near, so near, and it grabbed it, snapped it, snuffed it out and dropped it lifeless to the floor.

No pain.

With a broken smile it slipped back into the shadows, stood perfectly still, and waited.

It came out. GreenLeaf. The gold thing with the sweet, hot blood. Fingers tensed, twisted in anticipation, yet it remained still as the trees. It called the shadows, catching tendrils of it with its broken will and drew it on. They couldn't see it, couldn't sense it. 

Dozens of heartbeats and it heard them all. Different cadences, dips and swells, beats and rests, each one pounding on a different nerve in its body. One rising rhythm set its eye to twitch, another made his canines ache. Red rose up like a rushing wind, a crashing wave and it dug sharp nails into fleshy palms to keep steady. Everything that existed within its reality honed in on the GreenLeaf, the rest of the world slipping away until all it heard was the thud of a brave heart and the twang of a sure bow. 

It smiled as they scampered off, ignoring each one's passing and knowing that something would catch them soon. Piercing, shining eyes narrowed down the black arrow, sighting carefully for its target's center. A warm bead of moisture pooled on its lip, gray tongue swiping out to collect the salty stuff before relaxing its fingers.

Something hit its side, knocking the arrow off its true path by mere centimeters. It didn't bother watching the arrow, knowing instinctually that it would wound, not kill, and instead turned its rage upon the thing beside it.

"Do not touch him!" The soft, glowing thing decreed, and some part of it longed to obey. The vision before it warmed something that had ever been cold. It wanted to touch the radiance, and almost lifted curious fingers to the beatific face. Pain, bright and blinding, clutched its ragged mind, and it snarled a response. With all the speed its master had instilled in it, it grasped the thing before it, pulled it flush along the length of its body.

The pretty entity in its arms shuddered and gasped, warm breath tickling the hand that held its chin. Sweet sounding words poured forth in soothing tones, but it knew nothing of sweetness or soothing, only pain. The sweet words hurt Snaga deep in its chest, someplace that it could not place or name but felt all the same. Free fingers lay across the silk strewn pate, combed through soft hair once, before tightening and twisting with a dull thud. The voice was silent. The pain gone.

Dropping the once living-now dead thing to the dirt, it searched for signs of its target. The GreenLeaf lay gasping and bleeding sweet, hot blood upon the earth and it stalked to and pounced on it. The blue eyes brimmed with pain and fear, and it took a deep whiff before fixing hungry eyes upon the GreenLeaf again.

__

/'Lie still.'/

Something warm filled its mind. It knew this, had been here, precisely here before. Yet, it knew nothing of before. There was nothing until there was and it knew all of that. Remembered its master's voice howling in its mind as its first memory. Birth memory.

__

/The body beneath his hands trembled with tense pain. White fingers of one hand soothed the damp brow while the other clamped on a shaking shoulder. Black feathers swayed to and fro with each pained movement of the body and fingers pressed harder to still the moaning form./

It canted its head, staring at and through the purple flecked blonde beneath it. He watched a tear slide through the dirt dusting the creamy skin, saw it disappear into the torn braids.

__

/A brief glint of light forced already watering eyes to squint and a traitorous tear slipped free to mingle with the light sheen of sweat coating his face. A sharp blade vanished into the bloodied green velvet, slicing through fabric to expose the wound beneath. The sound of rending fabric echoed in the silent forest, punctuating the horror of the black shaft of wood jutting through torn flesh. 

'It's deep.' The voice was as distracting as the whimpers and he repositioned his hand to surround the offensive projectile./

It reached out and mimicked the white hands, wrapping around the black arrow, pressing down. Digging deeper for the memory, willing its broken mind to understand.

__

/Whimpers escalated into groans and he mumbled a quiet apology. 

'We cannot force it through. The bone is in the way.'

'But if we pull it back out, we will cause further damage.'

The two voices amalgamated in a din, abrading his already raw senses./

The ever-present black voice murmured, whispered, cajoled before ordering and commanding. A sharp shake of its head and it was gone again, lost to memory. 

/Legolas whimpered again, bucking up and forcing blood to ooze from the injury.

'Perhaps we should leave it. Take him back home.'

'What if it is poisoned?'

'Silence!' he bellowed, raking bloody fingers through his hair. 'You are driving me mad!' He wiped his hands on his tunic, pulling open his pouch to retrieve what was needed. 'Light a fire,' he barked. 'Now!'

Kindling, spark. Words. 'What do you mean to do?'

'Sometimes the cure is worse than the ill.' Cryptic. Horrible.

Moments only before the fire burned hot and furious, and he held the blade in it, watching the strong metal heat until red…./

Burning pain lanced through it, incinerating the memory to a mere pile of ash. Never happened, its master whispered. Figments, all. A trick of the GreenLeaf, worked to hurt, cause Snaga pain. 

It made sense and it snarled at the tensed form, eyes settling on the punctures that peppered its neck. With the self-same claws that inflicted those wounds, it grasped the pale column of throat and squeezed.

--------------------------

"Do not touch him!" The words echoed through the cave, reverberating and gaining intensity until they reached the Elvenking's ears. 

"Linna," he gasped, and took off in a sprint. Thalgaladh kept pace with him as fear spurred him to outdistance his warriors. Never had he heard such ire in her fair voice. Until now, he would have sworn it impossible for his gentle wife to ever vent the rage he'd heard in those four simple words. 

Four words with countless implications.

He ran hard, feet flitting over the ground, barely touching it in his mad dash forwards. He felt the cool draft on his face, smelled the blast of fresh air tinged with blood and pressed even harder to reach it.

A sharp pain in his chest sent him crashing to his knees, skidding along the ground for several feet before sliding to a complete stop. He landed on his face and panted for several moments, knowing and denying the cause of the pain. 

__

/Farewell, my love./

"My lord?" Thalgaladh, panting and worrying by his side, aiding him to his feet. "Are you well?"

Thranduil gave no answer, just sprinted toward the valley he knew lay ahead. The sight that greeted his entrance nearly stopped his eternal heart. Bodies lay strewn about, most dead, some dying. His blue eyes scanned for his wife, landed instead upon a creature choking the life from…. 

"Nay!" Thranduil roared, drawing his sword and rushing forward before Thalgaladh had finished processing the atrocity before him. Here lay the slaughter he'd hoped to avoid. Here lay the ambush! He cursed himself a fool as a foul creature leapt for him, armed with a bright sword. Thalgaladh danced backwards, unsheathed and deflected the blow in one move. Two more came, deadly efficient strikes of blade, movements almost too quick for him to detect. He was dimly aware of more warriors emerging, of some being struck by deadly arrows before they'd had a chance to breathe the open air, and he switched tactics, moved from defensive to offensive blows in a series of sharp slashes. Each one rang off the other blade, and the General found himself dumbfounded, at a loss. Gray eyes sought out the hidden ones of his attacker and when they met, the last piece of the unearthly enigma fell into place.

"They are elves!" He heard the answering cries of his warriors, felt tears prick at his eyes. Elves killing elves! He did not know if he could do it, never believed that it would come to this…. 

Thranduil did not hear the General's cry as he threw himself into the body straddling his son. The king and creature rolled several times before coming to a rest, with Thranduil's back pressed firmly into the dirt. The murderous monster above him snarled down at him, pulling a knife from out of thin air. The king saw the glint off the blade, noted the bloodied ivory handle and roared. 

With every ounce of strength in his millennia old body, he hurled the monster from him and rolled to stand before it. The ivory blade (his blade, Legolas's blade) hummed as it sliced through air, and Thranduil brought up his sword to parry it. The creature danced around him merrily, movements fluid and graceful as his own. The king stepped into an attack, and the creature caught the edge of his blade with the back of its own, slid around him shoulder blades to shoulder blades and completed the spin with a deadly slash. The king parried the move instinctually, his sword between his back and the other blade before he'd even realized it. His fingers and body went momentarily slack with realization. 

He knew that move. Knew it because he'd taught it to him. Thranduil spun around, sparks skidding between the short blade and his own as they clashed off one another. He looked at the creature before him, really looked, and saw the awful truth.

"Belegalad?"

The creature that had been Belegalad did not acknowledge the king, just flung itself into battle. He fought with renewed fervor while the king's moves grew sluggish and automatic. He parried each attack, his heart breaking at the blank, evil stare in his beloved son's animal eyes. "Belegalad, what have they done to you?" 

Again the creature gave no answer, save a grimace that might have passed for a smile. A guttural growl rose in his throat and he slashed at the king, blazed a trail of blood across his chest, and snorted in merriment. 

Thranduil gasped and stepped back from the rushing blade, fingers weakening under the weight of his grief. He considered his ruined son for a moment, watched as he licked the blood from the blade's edge and purred. Bitter bile rose to the back of his throat, and Thranduil wasn't certain whether he'd rather vomit or weep at the sight of the sadistic thing before him. 

Belegalad's feral eyes turned back toward the unconscious Legolas and Thranduil straightened. The broken prince eyed the fallen one with hunger and malice and the king leapt when he moved toward the prostrate form. His sword pierced flesh and his son howled at the pain of it. Thranduil's eyes welled. "Please do not force me to do this, my son."

The creature screeched at him, slashed with knife and claw, but the king only parried. "Fight this evil, Belegalad," he begged as claws tore through the fabric of his tunic, grazed and scraped, but did not split the skin beneath.

With a desperate wail, Belegalad threw himself into the king, knocked him off balance before springing with upraised blade at his fallen brother. He did not see the sword that pierced him until its point protruded from his chest. The ivory handled blade thumped onto the soft dirt below, and the once prince turned to face his attacker.

He knew him, he realized. Somehow he knew the one before him. Lips that had been created for snarling and screaming parted on a mewl and he collapsed to his knees before his aggrieved father.

"Father." He choked, voice full of blood. So many things he wanted to say now that he found his voice. His life was his own again, too late for him to claim it. He was dead, he knew, slain by his father. "Father," he gasped and fell backward, strong arms catching him before he fell down and drove the sword deeper still. Bloodied hands reached upwards, cupped a wet cheek. "Forgive me."  


Thranduil protested, begged his son to forgive him, but he was already dead and gone, his soul fled from his ruined body. The king wept into the dull black hair that was once shining gold.

"He lives." A soft voice whispered somewhere near, and Thranduil lifted his head from its coarse cushion to gaze hopefully at the son in his arms. "Legolas lives, my lord." 

With an abbreviated sob, the Elvenking lowered his dead son to the earth, careful not to disturb the sword. He pressed a soft kiss to his child's brow, whispered something that would forever remain a secret between them, before rushing to his youngest child's side. 

Legolas was a ruined mess on the forest floor. The thick black arrow was lodged deeply in his shoulder, the wound spilling obscene amounts of blood onto the already stained earth. The prince's delicate throat was ringed with black bruises, deep gouges both new and old seeping blood. 

"We must remove the arrow, my lord."

Thranduil only nodded, not trusting his voice to maintain its integrity just yet. Words might just cause what small quantity of composure he possessed to crumble. Thranduil felt as if he might fly apart at the slightest disturbance, never to find or recover all the shards of himself. 

Thalgaladh knelt beside him, though when the General had joined him he couldn't say. Perhaps it had been he who'd been speaking all along. "Would you like me to do it?" Thranduil recognized the tone as the one his friend used when gentling his frightened steed. A quick headshake was all the king could manage before he withdrew the impossibly thin dagger from its hidden sheath. A quick slice and the wound was laid bare for his scrutiny. A vial was stuffed into his hand and Thranduil met the steady eyes of his friend. Thalgaladh read the question written in the painfully young, incredibly old blue eyes. "For sterilizing the blade."

Thranduil wiped the blade with the unction, shaking as he approached the ruptured skin. Thalgaladh eyed him warily, fearing that the king might do more damage than good in his current condition. He did not speak the thought however, and when the blade touched the skin, all tremors ceased and Thranduil's movements were the precise, efficient movements of a skilled surgeon. Two slashes to widen the wound, retracing the faint remnants of an identical scar, and the arrow was smoothly withdrawn. The General had bandages at the ready, the bottom ones soaked with the witch hazel unction he carried, while the top remained dry and wrapped tightly around the injury. The prince moaned at the pressure, a fact that was heartening and heart wrenching, and he saw the king veritably break at the sound. 

Thalgaladh cleaned the shallow wounds around Legolas's throat while Thranduil struggled for composure. The General would not look at his friend, could not bear the naked grief written across his features. He feared that were he to cast a sympathetic glance, lay a reassuring hand, the king might dissolve before his eyes. So he kept intent on his task, dabbing and wrapping, until all the bleeding injuries were nursed and bandaged. 

Thranduil watched the play of his friend's expert hands over his son's skin, heard the shifting and maneuvering of the warriors around him. The sounds of battle had ceased, the ensuing silence an offense to his senses. The elves that lay dead in this valley died because of him. Thirty elves, plus those that had followed his son south, and it was he that sent them all to their doom. He might as well have skewered them each upon his sword as he'd done to his son. Thranduil swallowed the sob and fingered the thin blade that had set them down this path. The tip was still vivid red with Legolas's blood. Two of his blades bore the blood of his sons. Never would they come clean. Never again would he carry the sword that had murdered his eldest. Thranduil thought on this as he wiped his dagger clean and slipped it away. He unclasped his cloak and spread it upon the ground, lifting Legolas with as much care as he had when he'd been a mere infant, and lay him on the sturdy garment. Drawing the edges together and around, he hefted his precious bundle into his arms.

"Thalgaladh, please bring my wife and son," Thranduil said, unable to look upon the fallen again lest he lose himself to his grief. He could not afford such a luxury. His wife and eldest lay dead upon the earth, but Legolas yet lived. For him alone would Thranduil endure. He gazed at the slack, bruised face as he stepped past the bodies of the dead and marched from the valley.

The General stared confusedly at the retreating king, unable to comprehend his liege's words. He watched the king walk away without a backward glance, his mind busy processing Thranduil's order. His eyes fell from the king to the fallen foe and realization dawned. He cried out in horror at the sight of the crown prince skewered on his father's sword. A few paces from him lay his mother, neck twisted impossibly, eternal light extinguished. 

"Oh grievous day." He whispered, as the Elvenking began the trek to his new halls. The warriors, all sickened by the necessary kin slaying, wept openly at the sight of their fallen prince and queen. Thalgaladh crawled toward the dead prince, his beloved student, and cradled him in his arms. What tortures had the evil beast of Dol Guldur inflicted to put out so bright a light and poison so fair a soul? Kissing the prince's hand, he pledged his vengeance. All his many long years crashed upon him at once, and the General felt wearied and stooped with age. So very weary as he pulled the king's sword from the dead prince. The pull wasn't clean, the sword catching on a rib as he withdrew it. He braced one hand against the small of the boy's back and tugged with his right. The sword came free with a rip and slurp, the ruined body twitching once before laying still. He felt dizzy and ill as Belegalad's blackened blood trickled onto the gore soaked earth, and was unable to stem the flow of his tears before the other elves. Mercifully, one of the warriors had shucked his cloak and laid it over the prince, hiding the horridly beloved face from his sight. A distant howl punctuated the moment, bringing the General at least partially back from his grief. Wolves or wargs. Or some other fell beast. It mattered little for the fact remained that they needed to go. Their stand tonight was over, their time in Emyn Duir finished. Thalgaladh lifted the crown prince into his arms. "Bring all the dead," he pronounced. "We shall leave no elf behind to feed the beasts of this Necromancer."

Morthaun, who had aided Luinaur with binding his brother's broken ribs, rose quickly to relieve the General of his burden. "If it please you, my lord, I counted the Prince among my dearest friends. I would be honored to bear him home." The General felt no desire to relinquish his burden. He glanced down at the enshrouded figure in his arms, saw small blood stains blossoming where it still trickled from the gaping maw in the elf's chest. He did not want to give him up for it would be the last chance to ever hold him. But then there was the Queen…. With a small nod, he handed the incredibly light prince to his friend, heard the soft cries of the grieving, and lifted the queen's broken body into his arms. _Oh my fair Queen. What ever will we do without you?_

With weights on their hearts and laments on their lips, the warriors of Greenwood bore up their dead for the long journey home.

The End.

I'm joking. I wouldn't end the story there! There is one more chapter and will be up soon. 


	13. From the West They Came

Here it is--The final chapter. Sorry it took so long. I thought it was all done, but I have a tendency to revise the hell out of everything and even then I'm seldom happy.

Disclaimer: I make no claim to anything beyond the specific plot and the few original characters that managed to survive the story.

-13-

From the West They Came

Weeks had passed with aching slowness. The shadow that engulfed them so readily receded and vanished into the south, a faded, distant thing. Its memory lingered, as tangible as the hail that pounded them and the trees that cradled them.

Their new home proved everything the king had promised and more. The secure halls were light where the caves in Emyn Duir had been dark. Columns and pillars adorned the great halls, fanciful designs etched into the rock where upon lamps and torches were placed. The doors to the new throne room were wooden, as the old ones, though these were far grander with their intertwining engraved vines and flowers. Wherever life could flourish, there was it placed, and the halls smelled of blossoms and foliage where the mountains had ever been damp.

Thalgaladh had known of the plans, had even overseen some of the more delicate designs. Yet he still found his breath hitch at the beauty that Thranduil had managed to create out of a mere hunk of rock. It was not Menegroth, for a certainty. None expected to ever reclaim the glory of those years, nor he thought, should they. That time was past and it was always best to leave the past behind. Take what you can and move on. Nay, it was not Menegroth, but still it was beautiful. And it was theirs. 

The thought brought very little satisfaction, for their new freedom had come at an awful price. The halls that Thranduil had so painstakingly beautified and aerated for his family were hollow. The Queen and Prince lay dead along with countless others. The Necromancer of Dol Guldur had dealt the decimated peoples of Greenwood a severe blow, and recovery would take much time.

Thalgaladh strolled through the white halls, purposeless and aching. His feet slowed as he approached the door to the Royal Chambers, and he placed a pale palm upon the cool wood door. The grief radiated from the room as heat from the sun, and he was a mere satellite caught in its gravity. His heart festered and he longed to leave the halls and seek the solace that the forest and his people might offer him. They were weary, they were all so weary, so everyone reminded him. They longed to bury their dead, to mourn and lament, and he'd encouraged them to do so. Each time one would come to him with the question he would tell them to bury, grieve and heal. Everyone would smile their softest smile and ask him, "What of the King?" 

The King.

He had not left his son's sickbed, and each day seemed to leach a little more life from the prince. Legolas's wounds were as fresh as the day he'd received them, each seeping his life blood onto the continually refreshed linen sheets. The best healers in the realm had attended the prince under the weary, watchful blue eyes of his father. Thus far, none could divine what ailed him. They each offered panaceas and apologies, whispered words of strength and hope to the aggrieved King, and words of imminent death when out of earshot. Thalgaladh had braced and resigned himself.

Legolas was dying. And the General knew that it would only be a matter of time before his father followed.

A heavy sigh and he was pacing again. "Go and see him." The hushed voice caught a thin cord of his severely divided attention, drew it in.

"I cannot," another whispered brokenly.

"You must." The first insisted.

"I failed him. I cannot go and see." 

"Verenaur, what if….?" The pregnant question remained unfinished at the other elf's sharp retort.  


"Do not say it! I cannot think on it." 

Luinaur exhaled through his nose, a clear sign of irritation. Thalgaladh smiled a secret smile. During the first few days of marching through the dark woods, the General had believed Verenaur would die. High fever and delirium had taken strong hold over him, and the blood he hacked up could only be a sign of internal rupture. Each time they rested, Luinaur poured water into his brother, bathed his heated forehead, and whispered secret words to him. When the procession would continue, singing and weeping alternately, Luinaur would heft his brother into his burned hands and carry him forward. Out of respect for the younger brother, Thalgaladh kept silent about his suspicions. When others would express their fears to him he would hiss at them to hold their tongues. With silent tongues and grave eyes, each member of their rogue, royal procession watched for the final breath of Verenaur.

But the young elf was stronger than any had foreseen. On the fourth day the sun rose bright and beautiful in the sky and with it, Verenaur. While everyone basked and marveled in the blessings of Anar, Verenaur blinked his bleary teal eyes and smiled at his brother. His first words to his weary and heartsick brother had been something along the vein of a reprimand for his 'ever foolish actions.' Luinaur quickly quipped that of the two, only one of them was standing upright, and then muttered something about knowing he should have left him where he'd fallen so he'd not have to listen to the constant insipid lectures. Thalgaladh had smiled, his first since entering that gore strewn valley, greatly relieved to see the young one awaken. Hope had taken root once more and he prayed silently that the young prince would prove as hearty as his friend. 

His prayer remained unanswered.

Soft footsteps approached from behind him and Thalgaladh ceased his pacing. Possibly another healer come to humor the King with false hope, possibly another message of the peoples' need for their King in their time of grief. Either way, he would be forced to send them away for he would not allow another to enter and destroy what little was left of his friend, nor would he drag him from his son's side for matters of diplomacy. He turned as the elf approached and dropped to one knee. "My lord."

"What is it Galion?" He asked the butler, trying to stem his irritation. In the wake of all the horror, Galion had done an excellent job at intercepting and deterring all those who sought the King. Where the General's first instinct was to growl, Galion would offer a smile and some diplomatic platitude that would somehow dazzle the listener into leaving with a sense of fulfillment. And if the uncanny ability had impressed Thalgaladh (as much as such traits could impress a battle wearied veteran) in the case of Thranduil's common subjects, it was awe-inspiring in the case of the court. 

While he had always been included amongst the king's court, Thalgaladh had never considered himself a "noble," and so, never really had any tolerance or liking for the rest of the court. Hence, he had always run interference for the princes and their friends whenever they were caught at one of their flamboyant pranks. A quick wink and whisper to Thranduil of their own youthful antics would stem the tide of the king's irritation long enough for the youths to beat a hasty retreat. None of the other members of the court were ever pleased by Thalgaladh's interference, and so he could only assume that they were aware of his distaste for them. And though he'd never spoken a cross word to any of them, Thranduil had made no secret of the fact that the General had ever worn his disdain with the same openness as his scabbard and sword. Had any of that lot had the opportunity or nerve to approach him while the king sat at his son's sick bed, the General had little doubt that they would have learned of the depth of his dislike by both word and deed. Galion, on the other hand, had done a brilliant job of keeping the horrifying nobility at bay while still maintaining a sense of decorum. Not an easy task, for a certainty, and the General was more than willing to concede to the butler's fine diplomacy. Still, despite the elf's excellence at his job, his constant infringement on Thalgaladh's brooding had grown past the point of exhaustion.

"Beg your pardon, my lord but I thought you should know, a host of elves has been spotted approaching from the west." Thalgaladh hiked a questioning brow at the butler, indicating he should continue. "They bear the banners of Imladris."

Had Thalgaladh been younger or more rash, he might have shouted the curse that filled his mind. What in the name of Eru could that lot want now? After a thousand years they decide to pay a visit? Perhaps they come bearing housewarming gifts. The crueller parts of his mind, those still steeped in the shadow that had so thoroughly entrenched them, thought perhaps they'd come to gloat before shaking off the notion with no small amount of disgust at his own pettiness. "How soon before they arrive?"

"Quarter of an hour at the most, my lord."

Thalgaladh sighed again. He did not want to disturb Thranduil, especially not with news such as this. The elves of Greenwood had not had dealings with their western kin since the Last Alliance, and the parting had not been amicable. No ill words had been exchanged, but there had been a cool detachment in the soon-to-be king of Greenwood that could only indicate a deep anger. Though he never voiced it, Thalgaladh knew that Thranduil laid at least part of the blame for his father's death at the feet of the Noldor. Perhaps such thoughts were unfair, but equanimity seldom played a role in dealings of the heart. "Go and meet them at the doors. Be hospitable." Galion looked offended but Thalgaladh cared little for anyone's feelings right now. He had the most unpleasant task at hand, as far as he was concerned. He had to tell the king that the Noldor had come. "I will join you shortly." 

--------------------------

He was lost, he knew. Oh not in the literal sense. Were that the case, he could find his way anywhere with no more than the stars, the sun or trees to guide him. After all, he'd wended his way through the blackened, silent forest with no guidance, bearing the limp body of his unconscious child in his arms. The cool wind in his face had indicated his northerly direction, and that had been enough for him to lead his bloodied and bedraggled people to their new haven. Though his wanderings were metaphorical, those of spirit rather than body, he was no less disoriented than he might be wandering in a desert. Probably more so. 

Each ragged, pained inhalation the prince managed drew a sympathetic wince from the king that watched him. How long had he sat and watched his son suffer? A week? A month? Time meant little to an elf, and usually passed beneath their immortal notice. Agony had an amazing ability to slow time's incessant forward march, stretch seconds into eternities. It was not a fact that he'd been aware of two months ago. The Elvenking supposed that one is never too old to learn new truths.

Truth was a concept that he'd pondered much in the excruciating hours-days-weeks that he'd sat spectator to his son's insistent torture. Dozens of healers had traipsed in and out of the room he refused to exit, examining, puzzling, before offering up a pale reassurance and taking their leave. None had stated the truth that was so plain to the Elvenking.

Legolas was dying.

Sighing, Thranduil reached out and took his son's withered hand between his own. Legolas might have his eyes, his hair, but his skin was his mother's, pale and soft. The thought forced a tear from salt burned eyes, and Thranduil pushed away all thoughts of his dead wife, knowing that to dwell on such things would fracture what sanity he still possessed. Time for that would come. He had all eternity to mourn his dead family. _All eternity, _he winced at the thought, feeling a soul deep sickness sweep through his body. For now, however, he would hide in this chamber and focus on the warm, living hand in his own. The tips of the elegant fingers remained raw, occasionally leaking blood onto the white sheets, though Legolas received the injuries sometime during his journey to the Royal Chambers. _A life's age, and no scabs. _

"Oh my son." Thranduil whispered, though he wasn't certain whether the words be breath or thought. In truth, it mattered not. Legolas gave no indication of awareness, and had not stirred from his stupor since he'd fallen that fateful night. Leaning his aching head upon his son's sick (death) bed, Thranduil begged, "You cannot leave me, my Legolas. Whatever will I do if you leave me?"

A sharp rap at the door caught the attention of his exhausted mind, though it could not rouse enough interest for the king to lift his heavy head or even cast a casual glance. He already knew who it was. Thalgaladh was the only one who dared disturb the king anymore. On occasion, the General might ask if he could sit beside the king, or would inquire as to whether Luinaur might visit. But no more did healers come to offer their services, and Thranduil had arrived at the grim realization that no more healers remained. Hope was dead.

"What is it?" Thranduil whispered, pale fingers tracing the whorls of Legolas's stark knuckles where they lay splayed upon the sheets. 

The air in the room was stifling, laden with grief, pain and sickness. Thalgaladh ignored the death-soaked air and slipped inside, sealing the door against the world without. It had taken all his courage to enter, and the sight of his broken king and dying prince almost sent him skittering from the room with his metaphorical tail between his legs. _Coward! _ He chided himself for so selfish a desire. A deep breath and squaring of shoulders lent him some of the courage that had continuously failed him since they'd begun the march from Emyn Duir. "I am sorry to disturb you, my lord." He paused for a moment, longing for a delicacy of deliverance of this news, for one iota of Galion's tact. His friend was so upset (fragile), and he feared this might just drive him off the precipice on which he unknowingly teetered. Thalgaladh grasped and groped until the king raised an interested eyebrow and lifted his head.

"Yes?" he prompted.

"A host of elves from Rivendell rides in, my lord. I sent Galion to greet them, and am going now. I just thought you should know." _Smooth. Delicate as a battering ram._  


Thranduil's lip curled upwards with distaste. "Noldor," he spat, the word nearly a curse. "What could they want, I wonder."

"I will handle this, my lord." With that the General stepped from the room.

But Thranduil wasn't listening, too trapped in his own musings. Always had the Noldor believed themselves better. The Silvans were rude and rustic, living as they did amongst the trees, singing songs and making merry. Too simple to comprehend great magics. Too weak to bear the rings of power. No matter that the Noldor had invoked the ire of the Valar, slew their own kin in order that they may rob them before slinking away over the sea. The Noldor's history was fraught with tales of betrayal, lust and hubris. Yet they were the high elves, the noblest. They, who had seen Valinor while the simple Silvans had remained in Middle Earth. Somehow, that made them greater in their own estimation. _'But they bloody well came back didn't they.' _Inner imaginary Oropher chimed in, and Thranduil wholly agreed. It was not that the Noldor would ever speak of such greatness. No, no, they were far too graceful for that. It was their eyes, their turn of lip that would speak volumes of their supposed superiority. Their very attitudes conveyed the conceit well enough that the Wood Elves had attempted to maintain distance from them for long years. Thingol had been leary of the Noldor, and such caution had only proven the Sindarin King's wisdom in Thranduil's estimation . When the Noldor returned, they brought their curse and plague to Middle Earth, infecting the simple, happy elves that had ever dwelled here.

"Why are they here now?" Thranduil asked his son, his father, the air. It mattered not for he would receive no answers from any save the elves in question. He pressed his lips to Legolas's brow, murmured "Please wait for my return, my son. I will not be long away." He lay his hand over his son's and said a quiet prayer to anyone that might listen that Legolas would not depart while he left to deal with his unwanted and uninvited guests.

Stepping through the doors for the first time in…however long it had been proved a shock to the Elvenking. While he hadn't forgotten that they were in his new halls, he also hadn't adapted to the idea. The bright light of the corridor was unfamiliar, though welcome and Thranduil allowed himself a moment to soak up the warm sun through the window. He sensed eyes upon him, felt the relentless stares of the curious, and turned to face his audience. Verenaur and Luinaur sat on a bench, poised mid-conversation _(mid-argument, more like, _the king thought with a smirk_) _and openly gaped at the king.

"Verenaur." The king boomed, his voice holding all the majesty it ever possessed. 

The still weak elf stood quickly, annoyed at the steadying hand his brother placed on his back. "Yes, my lord." 

"I have some business to which I must attend and have no wish to leave my son alone. Will you sit with him?"

Verenaur's eyes widened with what could only be described as horror. Anything but that! Had the king asked him to march down to Dol Guldur and throttle the Necromancer in his stronghold, he would have eagerly and readily agreed. But the warrior had no heart to look upon his weak and dying friend. He opened his mouth to tell the king so when the thin eyebrow hitched upwards. The look dared him to refuse, a hybrid of exasperation and barely checked rage and the warrior nodded quickly in response. "Of course, my king." With a deep breath, Verenaur pushed open the heavy door to the prince's sickroom and closed it with a dull, quiet thud behind him.

Luinaur smiled at the door and then cast a curious look to the king. A blue eye winked at him conspiratorally. "It will do them both good, I think." The king strolled off to meet his guests leaving a thinly smiling Luinaur behind. 

-----------------------

"What do you suppose is wrong?" Glorfindel asked of the elf beside him. The elf's long, dark hair shifted smoothly as he shook his head. 

"I know not. But I feel a great sorrow upon these people. Evil has touched them and has not left them unscathed, I think." He'd felt the pervading sense of woe as they'd approached the sturdy, lofty halls of the Elvenking. The trees themselves sang a lament as they passed beneath the sturdy boughs.

Glorfindel nodded at his friend. He'd noted the grim faces of the normally jolly Wood Elves, heard laments in place of the usual jovial melodies. He agreed with his companion's assessment that these people had suffered great trauma. The knowledge, however, did little to assuage the irritation at having been ushered into a waiting room by a butler and left there inexplicably and indefinitely. Decorum dictated that the King himself greet guests in his realm and of his house. For him to leave them alone and unattended for so long was more than rude. "I still cannot believe they sent a butler to attend us and have not bothered to come greet us themselves."

Elrond hid his smile with his hand, trying to remain unaffected by his long time friend's jokes. His blue eyes scolded, though his lips only hitched further into a smirk. For an elf of so many years, Glorfindel could be as petulant as any youth he'd ever encountered. He'd spent half of the journey over the Misty Mountains expostulating on why traveling east was a bad idea. Most of the complaints were jests, Elrond knew, made in hopes of placating the dread that had so ensnared his dark haired companion. But there had been an underlying seriousness and validity to each argument Glorfindel had posed that had not gone unnoticed by any in their party, especially Lord Elrond. "Behave," Elrond scolded and Glorfindel snorted at him.

"I was just saying…"

"Well do I know what you were saying." Elrond declared, unable to keep the smile from his voice. "Behave," he said firmly. The blonde sneered, then smirked. 

The opening of the door had both elves quickly upon their feet, all traces of levity eradicated. The elf that approached them may not have been the king, but neither was he a mere butler. Silver hair swept into neat, efficient plaits about the crown of his head, the plush green velvet tunic with embroidered crest marked him as a warrior easily. It was his carriage and airs that told his station. A quick efficient nod, "Lord Glorfindel, Lord Elrond. Please forgive the wait. I am General Thalgaladh of Greenwood." The two elf lords cast questioning glances at each other before returning the pleasantry to the General. Gray eyes marked the silent exchange, and though he knew the two lords had many questions, Thalgaladh chose to keep silent. 

They all kept silent, in fact, and it loomed over them like a hammer waiting to drop as the elves appraised each other. Thalgaladh had never met either of the elf lords before him, though their reputations were the stuff of song and legend. Ordinarily such an encounter might excite him, for who would not be awed to stand in the presence of two such figures. Tales of their feats were unnumbered. They were living, breathing icons of Elven lore and history and they stood before him now as flesh and blood. _Belegalad would be positively giddy. Ever had he longed to travel Middle-Earth and meet the elves of legend. _The thought sobered him, wearied him. The past few weeks of stress and anxiety weighed heavily upon him and where once he might have been honored, he found he could muster little more than dim detachment to their presence. Too exhausted by measures, all the General offered was a vague smile.

The two lords stood in quiet contemplation, studying the silver haired elf before them. The General stood aloof, and Glorfindel felt every muscle in his body knot as he once again questioned the wisdom of riding east to Greenwood. Though most of his arguments along the road had been made in jest, the doubt that he felt had been very real. Their eastern brethren had little use for the elves of Imladris, and Glorfindel was more than happy to allow them their distant sovereignty. If Elrond had not been so haunted by the growing evil, he would have tried seriously to dissuade the journey. It was Elrond who broke the heavy silence with the same ease he had the millennium long severance, hoping to relieve the tension thrumming through the room and radiating off his long time friend. "I sensed a burgeoning evil to the east and we came as soon as we could to offer our aid. I fear we come too late."

Thalgaladh turned the statement over in his mind like a shiny coin, examining it from every angle before accepting it as simple truth. What purpose would Lord Elrond have in lying? "On behalf of our people I thank you for your concern. 'tis true that a heavy shadow fell upon us in our southern home near Emyn Duir, stretching northwards for many miles. We barely escaped the onslaught."  


"A shadow, you say?" This was ill news indeed.

"Aye, my lord. The new occupant of Dol Guldur decided to make his presence felt in the most literal way possible."

The elf lords were both intrigued and disturbed by the news. "If evil has once again taken residence in Dol Guldur then we must inform the others. Perhaps Mithrandir will know something about this." Glorfindel whispered to Elrond. 

With a small nod, Elrond continued, "Tell me of this evil in Dol Guldur."

Thalgaladh stiffened. It was curiosity concerning their new neighbor to the south that had started this entire fiasco. Had the elves ignored the Necromancer, perhaps he would not have attacked them so readily and ferociously. "We know little." He watched disappointment rearrange Glorfindel's fair features while Elrond's remained placid. "Only that it is a creature of terrible power. A conjurer of great magics."

"What kinds of magic?" Elrond pressed.

The silver haired elf found himself quite put off by the inquisition. _If you are so curious, why not ride south and find out for yourself? Why should you reap the benefits of our very hard learned lessons? _The more rational part of him knew that Lord Elrond was only trying gain some understanding of what he himself was only vaguely aware. "The worst kinds."

Glorfindel stiffened at the clipped tone, asking himself for the hundredth time why he had come. He had a mind to scold the General for his discourtesy, and set out to do just that when he caught the shimmering look in the gray eyes. 

Without prompting, Thalgaladh continued, "He visited every plague imaginable upon us, besetting us with a pestilence of insects, vermin and serpents. The sky opened to rain hail the size of heads and fists upon us, and unnatural clouds swirled thick, low and ominous above. We dwelled in pitch blackness both day and night, without stars to gaze upon. And that is merely the beginning of his powers." Of the rest the General could not speak. The warriors that had been taken and twisted had been his elite. Each one had he known the full lengths of their lives. He'd watched them grow from children into the finest warriors and people he'd ever met and to think upon their loss, that several in fact had died upon his sword, brought him great pain.

Elrond seemed to sense the grief welling in the General, and his own fears and suspicions multiplied. "Where is King Thranduil now?" The tone was flat, even and ripe with implications. Glorfindel caught on and held his breath for the answer. 

When the General did not immediately respond both lords believed their worst suspicions confirmed. The General opened his mouth, but the voice that filled the room was not his. "He is right here." All three of the room's occupants turned stunned looks upon the King and Thranduil took a moment to enjoy the tableau. 

"My lord, I told you that I would handle this matter." Thalgaladh griped, raking concerned gray eyes over his weary friend. Thranduil looked good, considering the circumstances. His posture and gait betrayed nothing of the grief and loss that he bore, and if the General did not know how very weary his friend was, even he would be fooled by the performance. 

Thranduil held the gray eyes for a moment, some silent communication passing between the two friends, before turning back to his thoroughly confused guests. He'd known that the Noldor had come, but had no idea that Lords Elrond and Glorfindel were leading the host. Had he the energy to care, he might even be flattered by the presence and concern of such grand elves. As it was, he sorely wanted to get back to his dying son and could manage little more than annoyance at the noble elves' intrusion. "Lord Elrond, Lord Glorfindel…" he greeted, though he had no idea what to say to them. Somehow he didn't think, 'what in the name of Elbereth are you doing here' would be appropriate. Nor did he feel much like welcoming them to his home. Instead, he greeted them with the traditional salute of respect and stared at them.

The king's sudden appearance had taken them off guard, for a certainty, though only for a moment. When Thranduil said nothing to them, they returned his gesture and stare. Thalgaladh watched the exchange, saw the deep circles under his friend's eyes and knew that he was in no shape to stand against the piercing stares of the two elf lords. He also knew Thranduil well enough to realize that his pride would never allow him to buckle under the weighty glares. For all their sakes, he decided to intervene. "Perhaps I shall have Galion bring us some tea, my lord," he inquired, hoping to provide a subtle enough distraction from the glaring match the three elves had engaged in that all would come away with their pride in tact.

Thranduil nodded at the General and watched him disappear out the doors. He turned back to the two lords, felt his anger blossom white hot in his chest, before stifling it. "Please, take your ease. I fear that my hospitality is somewhat lacking today."

__

No kidding, Glorfindel thought. He couldn't be certain, but he thought he saw a small smile tug at his friend's lips again. Either his friend had picked up on his thought, or he shared it. By the time they'd situated themselves, the General had returned to the room with Galion in tow. The butler poured the tea before beating a hasty retreat. Glorfindel couldn't squash his envy of the butler. There was nothing that would have given him greater pleasure at that moment than leaving.

Lifting his cup, Elrond said, "So Thranduil, how fares the Queen?" 

Without missing a beat, the Elvenking replied, "She is dead."  


Once again Thranduil had the great satisfaction of watching both elf lords nearly choke in their shock. Judging by the clatter of cup against saucer, Thranduil would guess that at least some of their hot tea had spilt onto their clothing, and that thought gave him a warm fuzzy feeling in his chest where before there had only been a void. The smug look vanished from Glorfindel's face, and that of course had been the king's intention. He was in no mood to be swapping pleasantries at the moment, most especially not with people who had not bothered to have any contact with him or his realm since the Last Alliance. Well did he know what these elves thought of himself, his people and most infuriatingly, his father. 

Both elves began offering condolences, but Thranduil only held up his hand to stop the words. "I thank you for your sympathies. But now perhaps you understand a little better why I must dispatch with formalities and ask you for what purpose you have come here."

Thalgaladh placed a calming hand on the king's arm, hoping to stem the oncoming tirade. The muscles beneath his hand were rock hard, vibrating in their tension, and the General felt his own anxiety climb. He fought his own instincts for some form of diplomacy. "What the king means…."  


"I have said what I mean." He bit out, casting a hard, silencing glare at Thalgaladh. "Why are you here, now, after a thousand years?" Thranduil bellowed, shaking off his friend's hand and standing abruptly. His anger was a fire threatening to consume him whole and live, and he took deep breaths in hopes of quenching it. 

With measured calm, Elrond said, "We came only to assist you, King Thranduil. We meant no offense." Elrond's cool regard and gentle words did little to assuage the Elvenking's ire, though he found his seat and his manners again. Shaking fingers bore deeply into his temples, trying to rub away the tension and bluster.

"Nay, 'tis not you that is the offense. Forgive me, I am not myself." Deflated, his thoughts turned once more to the son who lay dying upstairs. Leaning over to whisper something to Thalgaladh, Thranduil rose and said, "I am sorry, my lords. My home is yours. Please take your leisure here. You must be weary from your journey." With that, the Elvenking strode out of the room, leaving a devastated silence in his wake.

Thalgaladh watched as the two elf lords sipped their tea. Neither looked insulted at the king's unseemly outburst, but still he felt they deserved an explanation. "You must forgive King Thranduil, my lords. These past months have been exceedingly difficult. He has taken no food and little rest since we've arrived here despite my efforts. Though in truth, I cannot blame him. He has suffered much loss of late."

"There is nothing to forgive, General. It is plain to me that the King bears great sorrow. It is we who should apologize for disturbing him so." Lord Elrond said gravely, Glorfindel nodding once in apparent agreement.

"Nay. You came offering help and have been answered with scorn," he said wearily and regretfully. "He meant it, that you should stay. He does not offer his home or his apologies idly. Please do stay with us to at least grant us the opportunity to rectify this mistreatment."

"We accept your invitation with much gratitude, General." Glorfindel spoke this time, wishing only to quell the silver haired elf's agitation. The words seemed to calm him and he sipped at the tepid tea with little interest. Glorfindel felt almost as ashamed at his reluctance to come as he did for his desire to leave. Elrond had been correct, their assistance was needed. He felt a keen desire to know everything. "Will you tell us what happened?"

"You mean to the Queen?" 

"I mean whatever you mean," he replied with a smirk, knowing this game too well to be bested. 

So Thalgaladh explained it all, from Belegalad's mysterious mission south, to the infestations and subsequent disappearances of bugs, rats and snakes. He told of Luinaur's self inflicted burns, the dark thoughts that plagued his own mind, and the Queen's mysterious sleep. He tried to explain the great quakes that shook the mountains, the spiders that nested within and the army that stood without. The two elves listened rapt for hours, exchanging tea for spiced wine, as the silver haired elf outlined in great detail the awful tale of their latest battle with evil. He told them of the dozens of spiders that laid siege to the throne room, his fear of the untimely deaths of the injured who lay within and the revelation of the secret path to freedom. "We gave chase to the injured but we reached them too late, I fear. The Queen already lay dead at the hands of the dark creature that had been our beloved prince. He was so changed," the General tried to rub the ache from his head with thumb and forefinger, "and yet he was still Belegalad. He murdered his mother and it was in the attempt to murder his brother that…he perished." Almost had he revealed the true horror of that night. Not all truths must be told. Some memories were theirs alone. "It became apparent during the trek here that the Necromancer had somehow pried the information on the secret tunnel from the prince's broken mind, for only three knew of its existence and location." 

"Sweet Elbereth," Glorfindel whispered. Elrond closed his eyes in grief and horror at the tale. Such news boded ill for all of Middle Earth, for if a creature of such terrible power once again occupied Dol Guldur, it could spell disaster for them all. And yet, it was not Middle Earth that occupied his mind at present, but the plight of the Elvenking.

"Tell me Thalgaladh, what of the youngest prince?"

Thalgaladh sniffed once in an effort to hold back the tear that threatened to spill. He failed and the two lords watched its progress down the side of the silver haired elf's fair face. "Prince Legolas does not recover from his injuries. They bleed today as fresh as the day they were inflicted on him, and he has never once awoken since he fell unconscious. That is where King Thranduil is now, was when you arrived, and has been since we've come to our new home. He does not leave Legolas for we all know that he is fading. I fear it is only a matter of time before he joins his mother and brother in the Halls of Mandos."

__

And Thranduil is certain to follow, Elrond thought sadly. For who could bear such a loss and continue to live in the aftermath. True, he had little love for the King of Greenwood. Thranduil was stubborn and proud, much like his father. Yet, Elrond truly believed that Middle Earth would be a worse place for loss of him, and the Silvans lost without him. The king was a sturdy soul that bore a great strength, as evident by the survival of his people under such an onslaught. With a small shake of his head, he dispelled the dark thoughts. Now was not the time to dwell on such things. Not while hope remained. "What ails the prince?"

The General shrugged helplessly before taking a deep swallow of his wine. "No one knows for certain. Some believe that the shadow has taken hold of him, some believe he's been poisoned. Others think that Belegalad stemmed the blood flow to his brain for too long, thus killing it while his body yet lived, while others believe that it is grief that takes him from us. Every healer in the realm has tried to ascertain the source of his malady. Each have theories, but still the prince lays dying."

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow at his friend and waited for the predictable reaction. "Do you think that the King would allow me to examine Prince Legolas?"

Thalgaladh considered the offer for a moment. Thranduil had little love of the Noldor, true, but he loved Legolas fiercely and unconditionally. Tales of Lord Elrond's healing skills were great and widespread, and if there was any hope to be had, it very well might rest in the hands of the dark haired elf seated across from him. "I am certain the King Thranduil would be honored to have you examine his son."

"I would see him now then."

Elrond rose, waiting to be ushered to the dying prince. The silver haired General stood to take him, pausing momentarily to say, "I just have one request, my lord. Do not offer a false hope to the king." Elrond's brow furrowed and Thalgaladh continued, "so many others have offered platitudes and promises. The king needs to be prepared if and when the prince passes on."

With an understanding smile, Elrond followed the loyal General through the white corridors of King Thranduil's new home. 

--------------------------

Verenaur believed he'd seen enough of evil in the past few weeks to prepare himself for whatever lay beyond the heavy door to the prince's chamber. The pounding hail, the swarm of rats, the deep pit that he'd fallen into, and the marauding spiders had all left a deep scar upon the stout, young warrior that had yet to start fading. Sometimes still he would awaken disoriented, thinking his bed to be the cold, damp floor of a spider's lair. Often would he mistake his blankets for a spider cocoon, convinced that he'd been bitten and woven into the spiders' great web, awaiting the time they would come and devour him alive. He'd nearly bitten through his tongue one night in an effort to stifle his screams.

Yes he'd thought he'd seen enough atrocity, degradation and defilement to prepare him for anything. Yet, stepping across that threshold and into the nightmare that had become his dearest friend's reality nearly sent the warrior crashing to his knees. The room had a strange odor about it, not entirely unpleasant, just tinged with something acrid. Verenaur's nose crinkled in distaste as he tried to place the odor. Sweet healing herbs and sour sweat, perhaps, though when he looked at the prince, his brow appeared dry. Everything appeared dry, in fact, right down to his white crusted lips.

"Oh Legolas," Verenaur cried, falling to his knees beside the bed. Shaking fingers reached out, hovering inches above the prince, afraid to make contact. To touch him would make this all real and Verenaur was uncertain whether he wanted to accept this reality. Part of him preferred the thought of being spider food if it meant Legolas could be whole and healthy. 

His hand finally descended and with it reality. Legolas's skin was soft, dry and cool to the touch. Fingers flitted through the silken hair, brushing long strands back from the prince's still features. "Legolas," he whispered brokenly. "All has gone ill. There is much that I kept hidden from you and now I fear we shall never speak again." He shifted onto the bed, stroking the prince's hair with each word. "I thought it best not to tell you about the evil spell you came under in that corridor. Perhaps if I had, we might have understood what was happening. Might have realized this monster's terrible power." He swallowed thickly. "I thought we'd have time to discuss it with your father or the General. But then I lost you…." _Or you lost me. _"When I woke in that pit, alone…" he paused, unable to express the feeling. "Everything was so dark and painful. I wanted so badly to search for you, but I could not. I have never been so ashamed in my life as I was when I left that cavern." Verenaur went on and on describing his adventure through the darkness to the unconscious prince, telling him everything he had longed to tell since he'd awoken two weeks before. "Luinaur tells me that it was your mother who guided me through the darkness. She delivered me from certain death, you know."

"You delivered each other," a voice answered, and Verenaur looked hopefully at the prince. The features were still slack, blue eyes sealed against the world around and Verenaur looked around in confusion. He turned to see his brother behind him and offered a weak smile. "The Queen made that perfectly clear." 

  
"He looks so small." Verenaur commented offhandedly. Luinaur did not respond, merely sat beside his brother in the dark room. "Do you think he will live?"

Luinaur averted his eyes. "Usually it is I who asks the unanswerable questions."

"And I scold you for them." Luinaur nodded his affirmation. "Will you scold me for asking this question?"

"Nay. I am not as bullheaded as you." Verenaur gaped in disbelief at his brother before chuckling. Luinaur joined him, clasping the hand still combing through the prince's hair. When the mood turned serious so too did Luinaur's tone. "Legolas is strong and well loved. I will not abandon hope so long as he draws breath. And neither should you, dear brother."

--------------------------

Foolish was the only word that could describe how the Elvenking felt as he marched his way back through the unfamiliar corridors of his new home. He should not have reacted as he had, should not have taken out his pent up rage on those who had come offering assistance. Nothing could excuse such disrespect. He had shamed himself, his father and his wife's memory with such unabashed triviality and foolhardy bluster. Linnaloth would have been ashamed of him had she witnessed his outburst. _'_Bad Form,' she would chide. The thought made his ears burn, and brought tears to his eyes. 

__

"Legolas is strong and well loved. I will not abandon hope so long as he draws breath. And neither should you, dear brother," were the words that struck Thranduil as he reentered his son's room. Both elves turned at the sound of the king's approach, standing and readying themselves to leave. 

"Please, there is no need for you to go," the king said, despising the idea of being left alone again with only himself for company. _Poor company, indeed. _The brothers exchanged wary looks before resuming their places by Legolas's side. Thranduil walked around the sick bed and took his seat beside it, opposite Verenaur and Luinaur. He watched as they comforted each other and his son. Verenaur lifted the rag from the washbasin beside the bed and dabbed at the prince's cracked lips while Luinaur combed out and plaited the long silken hair. Thranduil smiled at them, taking Legolas's hand between his own and began humming a tune. Both brothers recognized the song immediately as one of the prince's favorites. Verenaur remembered clearly hearing it vibrate through the stone beneath his ear when he thought that he was dying on the mountain side, and he began humming along with the king. Blue eyes snapped up at the sound and Luinaur joined in, singing the words to the song. 

They sang on and on to the prince and one another. Though they had known the king the entire length of their lives, they had never heard him sing before. But sing he did, every word, every verse and of course they realized how preposterous the thought of the Elvenking of the Woodland Realm not singing, especially when his wife and sons were such musical creatures. And yet they still could not help but gape a little at the sweet voice, so very much like their friend's, as it lifted to sing song after song.

It was against the backdrop of the Song of Nimrodel that Thalgaladh announced his presence with a sturdy knock. The song died quickly and Thranduil bid his friend enter though he was loath to face him. Shame rose up in him again at his outburst, and he knew that while his friend would never speak a reprimand to him, he felt a bitter disappointment in his king. 

Thalgaladh had not expected to find the king keeping company. Luinaur had only visited a few times and for moments only while Verenaur had wallowed too deeply in his own shame to enter the room at all. The king had spent the past two weeks in this room entirely alone, with only his dying son and personal demons for company. "My lord, might we have a moment?" 

The platinum haired brothers took that as their cue. Verenaur whispered a promise of a swift return to the prince while Luinaur slipped out of the room. Thranduil marked their departure with regret. His son's friends had brought him the first measure of peace that he'd felt in weeks. Through their shared grief he felt some of his lost strength return to him and he drew on that reclaimed strength to face his friend.

"If you have come to chastise me save your breath."

Thalgaladh merely stared at his friend for a moment. He knew the king was ashamed of his loss of composure and saw no need to dwell upon it. Thranduil bore a great burden. It was no surprise that he might occasionally buckle under its weight. "I have not come to chastise you, mellon. Lord Elrond has asked if he might examine the prince." 

Thranduil frowned in confusion. The sharp clear lines of his eyebrows drew together, furrowing his brow as he considered the offer. The expression reminded Thalgaladh of both Oropher and Belegalad, and he found he could not look upon it for long without being swallowed by his grief. "His healing abilities are the stuff of legend, my lord. If anyone can save Legolas, he can."

The king did not require convincing. His confusion was not a matter of whether to allow the other elf to heal his son, but why he might offer after the Elvenking's unseemly outburst. "Of course. Please show him in."

Within seconds of his friend's departure, the door opened again to admit the stately figure of Lord Elrond. Thranduil found it difficult to face him, but his pride would not allow him to display such weakness. He stared defiantly at the other elf, his fingers still woven tightly with the limp, lifeless digits of his son. Elrond nodded at Thranduil before turning his attention to the elf on the bed. "Must I leave him?" Thranduil asked, breaking the heavy silence around them. 

Elrond had no expectations when he'd approached and still he felt horrified at the withered sight before him. _Poor beloved child. _His gaze drifted to the entwined fingers of father and son, felt the strength of that connection. "No. It is better for him to have you here. Though I may need you to step away momentarily." 

The king nodded and complied. Backing into the far corner, Thranduil watched as the Lord of Imladris checked each injury with meticulous care. Sure fingers prodded the damaged knee, danced over the punctured throat, traced the split cheek. Thranduil winced at each gentle touch as though he could feel his son's discomfort. "He is all that I have left." The confession slipped out before the king had realized he'd had the thought, and he felt naked before the other elf in its wake. Elrond offered a small smile, revealing none of the shock he felt at the king's heartfelt declaration. With an understanding nod, he turned back to his patient.

In silence the dark haired elf finished his examination, checking each injury twice to be certain of his diagnosis. He sighed deeply when he'd completed his examination, and met the fearful eyes of the king. "The wounds are poisoned with whatever ill concoction the Necromancer used to create monsters from elves." Thranduil closed his eyes in resigned defeat. It was no more than he'd feared, but to hear it made him ill. "The shadow upon him is heavy, but I can dispel it."

Unsought hope blossomed and the Elvenking stared in momentary awe and disbelief at the elf-lord. "I am amazed that he has lived so long under so fell a shadow. Your son is strong, but I think that it is the strength of his father that has sustained him." Thranduil quirked an eyebrow at the elf lord and Elrond elaborated. "Were it not for your vigilant hope, King Thranduil, your son would have long ago followed his mother and brother to Mandos." 

With no more words, Elrond lay his hands upon the prince's cold brow, calling to him with both will and words. He spoke in the high tongue, the language forbidden by Thingol long years ago, and Thranduil could not guess what he spoke. But on his final word, the grayish tinge that had come over the prince faded into the pink of life and the warmth that had abandoned his body began to return in force. 

"Call to him, Thranduil. The child needs his father now," he said before leaving the room to give the king a moment with his son.

The Elvenking did not watch the other elf leave the room, though all his gratitude went with him. He quickly resumed his place by the prince's bed, capturing the still hand in his own. His eyes remained riveted to his son's face, now flush with color of life. "Legolas?" he called, feeling foolish in his hope. "Open your eyes little one. Return to me."

A flutter of lashes and a tightening grip answered his voice and Thranduil thought he might explode. "That's it Legolas. Come back now." A hint of blue appeared from behind the sealed lids, head turning in search of the source of the voice calling him. With his free hand, Thranduil cupped his son's face and turned it towards him. The touch seemed to draw Legolas even more from his stupor and the slitted eyes focused on the king's.

"Ada," he croaked, voice arid and guttural with disuse. Still, it was music to the king's ears and a balm to his soul. 

"Hush now, my son." The king whispered, lifting the rag from the basin to wet the dry lips. "Do not exert yourself." Legolas's tongue swiped out over the freshly moistened lips, seeking something to put out the fire in his throat. Sensing his son's desire, the king offered a small drought of water, encouraging the newly arisen prince to take small sips.

"Father, Belegalad…." The king cut off the prince with a finger across his lips. When a tear leaked from one blue eye, Thranduil wiped it away.

"Let us not speak on that now. We have eternity to talk." Thranduil gathered his son in his arms and held him until the end of his sobs.

--------------------------

Thalgaladh ceased in his relentless pacing when he heard the door to the prince's room open and close. He searched the elf lord's face for any hint of what had transpired. But the face remained a placid mask, revealing nothing to the other elf. With a small flutter in his stomach and two nervous elves at his back, Thalgaladh asked, "Well?"  


"Prince Legolas shall live," he declared. Glorfindel walked over to his friend, placed a congratulatory hand on his shoulder and studied him with concern. Elrond offered his friend a nod and smile. 

"That is joyous news, indeed." The General declared. "Come my lords, I shall have Galion show you to your quarters. He shall bring you food tonight. Tomorrow, we feast!"

-----------------------

Time resumed its regular pace again, and as the General promised, the next day the Wood Elves had a grand feast. The people were shocked and overjoyed at the appearance of their absent king and ill prince. Many of the people started to believe the rumors that the prince had died and the king lay withering in his grief. But their presence diffused said rumors and left only disbelieving awe in their wake.

Lords Elrond and Glorfindel were the guests of honor and the Wood Elves toasted to them several times throughout the course of the festivities. Indeed all the elves of Rivendell had been embraced by their Woodland kin as honored visitors, and for the first time in a thousand years, the folks from the east and west forgot their differences and broke bread together.

The day following the feast, King Thranduil and the slowly recovering Prince Legolas presided over the memorial services for the brave warriors that had died in defense of their people. Legolas himself lighted his brother's and mother's funeral pyres as the king led the people in a lament. The winds caught and carried the ashes of the dead, bearing them off into the woods. The forest that had been their home in life would now keep them in death. Many of the ashes fell into the water of the poisoned, black river, and while the enchantment that lay across the waters was not lifted, it was later believed that the sacred ashes changed the very nature of the spell. No longer did those who touched or drank the water fall under a heavy shadow. Instead, they would fall into a deep sleep and dream sweet dreams of Elven festivals and merriment.

With heavy hearts, the host from Imladris prepared for their departure. Though it had only been a few weeks together, the elves felt the great chasm that had existed between their peoples grow narrower until it nearly passed from memory. While the attack of the shadow upon the unsuspecting peoples of Greenwood would ever be remembered as a time of tragic loss, none could deny the good fortune that ensued. The estranged elves from the west and east had found a common thread of peace, and the bitterness that existed between the King of the East and the Lord of the West eased until all that remained was a mutual aloof respect.

As Elrond and Glorfindel crossed the blackened waters of the Enchanted River, they fancied they heard a merry giggling. Glorfindel turned to his friend and said, "Will they ever recover from such a horror?"

Elrond thought on the question a moment before saying, "I have learned that we should not underestimate the strength of hope. And the Silvans are a hopeful lot."  


"Well, you'd have to be to live in such a dark wood, I suppose." Glorfindel observed.

"It wasn't always so dark," Elrond countered.

"Evil has lived here a long time."

"So have the Silvans," Elrond shrugged. The two elves fell into a companionable silence, listening only to the soft clopping of their horses' hooves on the grass. After a time, the blonde elf lord asked, "Do you think that Legolas shall ever fully recover from the shadow that gripped him?"

As always, Elrond pondered the question seriously. He thought back on a conversation that he and the young prince had during their stay. He'd stumbled on the prince in the gardens one night, singing to the night sky. The prince was healing well, most of his bruises faded, his limp almost gone. "Prince Legolas," Elrond said, startling the youth from his reverie. "Did your healer not advise you against evening strolls alone on that injured knee?"

Legolas offered a sheepish smile. "Aye, my lord. But it has been so long since I've seen the stars, and I could not resist the temptation of so beautiful a night."

Unable to argue with the prince, Elrond merely nodded. "Might I join you?"

"Of course." Legolas replied, sitting upon the earth. "I do not believe that I have had the opportunity to thank you, Lord Elrond. I have been told that I owe you my life."

Elrond accepted the thanks with a nod, casting his gaze once more at the sky. The two sat in a peaceful silence for a long while, each caught in his own musings. When Legolas spoke again, his tone held a serious edge. "I do hope that you will not think ill of my father." The statement caught the dark haired elf off guard.

"I have no reason to think ill of the King, Legolas." Legolas eyed him for a moment before nodding in acceptance of the statement. 

"He is not what many believe him to be. He is a good king and a good father. He has a kinder heart and gentler soul than most credit him." Legolas rose from the ground, approached the other elf. "I am glad that you have come and gave me the opportunity to meet my western kin. You are not what I believed you to be." The two elves shared a secret smile. "I hope that our two peoples shall ever be friends, and if you ever have the need you will not hesitate to call upon us." The prince left him then, limping away.

Elrond had sensed wisdom and strength in the young prince, and indeed, a great deal of healing. "Yes," he said. "Even now do I believe that he has cast off the evil shroud, and merely struggles to find his place. For his whole life he has been the younger son of the Elvenking. Now, he is the only son. His path will not be easy, I think. But I sense a majesty in him much like I sensed in his father when I met him so long ago. I think that the young prince of Greenwood will hold a great place in the history of our people."

"My heart tells me that we have not seen the last of him," Glorfindel reflected.   


Elrond smiled. That the future was always uncertain was its only true certainty. But still, he could not help but feel that the fate of the young prince of Greenwood was somehow intertwined with his own future. "I believe you are right, old friend." It was many years before Elrond again met with Legolas Thrandullion, but when he did he could not help remembering his prediction or its accuracy.

But that is another tale….

_____________________________________________________________________________________

The other tale is actually in the works right now, though you could of course interpret the final line as the events that transpire in _The Lord of the Rings_. For those of you who have read and reviewed, I appreciate your support. This is my first attempt at posting a story, but it will not be the last.

I'm also thinking about writing the story that I alluded to in this one--about Legolas and Belegalad. Anyone interested? (Even if your not, I'm sure I'll write it anyway. My muses are relentless and will not let me sleep.)

Until then….


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